


You Have (1) New Message

by coquettish_murder_muffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Falling In Love, First Time, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Rape, Online Friendship, Phone Calls & Telephones, Slow Burn, Stalking, Young! Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 80,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8473969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquettish_murder_muffin/pseuds/coquettish_murder_muffin
Summary: Will nearly dozes, resting his head back against a pile of pillows, eyes drooping closed while he waits for the response. The medicine is at its best, and here he is, fighting it when he should be embracing what it has to offer. He so rarely sleeps through the night, and tries his best to stay away from sleeping pills. It's being wasted. He can't bring himself to log out, though, not just yet. 
  Ping.
The tab reads, You Have (1) New Message





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Initially inspired by the "Cannibal Cop" Gillberto Valle case.

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

 

 **the_butcher:** i see you're new here  
**the_butcher:** you haven't got much on your profile do you  
**the_butcher:** need a tour? this place scaring you off yet

 

No, not really. Will Graham has been fairly unimpressed and extremely underwhelmed in the time he's spent setting up his profile, which includes a profile picture he made all himself, a stick figure dog in MS Paint. It looks miraculously stupid. It's what he was going for, so it's not all that disheartening. Most of the hour he's been working tirelessly on the picture (an animal certainly begging for the sweet release of death, with his bloated stomach and differently sized eyeballs), and the rest of his time has been spent checking down through the droplist of interests offered on his page. Many of them fetishes, and quite taboo. He imagines this is how he has been contacted so fast, and so often, despite only joining today. This is one of two conversations he has bothered to pay attention to, since the rest of them were mostly spamming links he dared not click, or sexual comments. 

It's a relief to be approached by an actual person and not a bot, so he indulges the_butcher. 

 

 **sadmutt:** no

 

He takes a long stretch in the creaking computer chair and his joints crack. Papers are strewn all about the desk in their own organized, disorganized way, and he has no urge to pick them up, or the dirty clothes that make up the floor of his apartment. He checks the watch strapped to his wrist. It's late, but not late enough to crawl into bed and struggle with nightmares for the next four hours. He fixes his blue eyes on the too-bright screen of his cheap laptop. No response yet. He's even worse at conversation online than in person. Not even this possible psycho knows how to talk to him.

 

 **sadmutt:** lol

 

Excellent recovery. He rubs at his face, feeling dazed and strained. His head hurts, and it probably won't help to set his glasses aside, but he does it anyway. He has no idea why he bothered to sign up, other than the fact that he's a freak with too much time on his hands and not enough friends. Hardly any friends. This is no attempt at self-deprecation, it is simply a fact, and something he has accepted for most of his short twenty-something life. 

 

 **the_butcher:** chatty cathy  
**the_butcher:** i like that  
**the_butcher:** well you got nothing to fear from me, i'll be gentle

  
**sadmutt:** i get the sense that you're the exact opposite of "gentle"  
**sadmutt:** nice profile

  
**the_butcher:** a man can have dark fantasies without acting on them, i am offended

 

The guy looks like a total fanatic, but relatively harmless. It takes forever for Will to scroll all the way down to "interests" on the_butcher's profile page in a new tab, separate from the private chat. Not surprisingly, the icon itself is a mugshot of his favorite killer of the week. It says on his profile that he changes it regularly, as well as his display name. There is a Wikipedia article copypasted in its entirety about his current fascination. It seems to be Richard Chase today. 

 

 **sadmutt:** you into vampires?

 **the_butcher:** im into anything man  
**the_butcher:** chase was a nut

 **sadmutt:** they tend to be  
  
**the_butcher:** a  particular nut then.   
**the_butcher:** smartass

 

Will switches over to an earlier conversation. No new updates, just the logs. 

 

 **Familyman** : Something not quite right about you, is there?  
  
**sadmutt** : says the man on a website for murder kinks

 **Familyman** : I'm not wrong.

 **sadmutt** : technically you're not, i guess

 **Familyman** : Where's your mommy and daddy?

 **sadmutt** : i assure you, i am a (somewhat responsible) adult

 **Familyman** : Uh huh. You don't want to get yourself snatched. Not everyone here is playing a game. I wonder, are you?

 **sadmutt** : i'm just figuring out where you stand

 **Familyman** : I revel in my naughty thoughts once in a while, and then I get back to my life. I think you, on the other hand, have a bit of a limp. I'm right?

 **sadmutt** : i'm healing, thanks

 **sadmutt** : you're just fucking around right?

 

God, he sounded so paranoid.

 

 **Familyman** : I'm obligated to say yes, for legal reasons. But yes, I am yanking your chain.  
**Familyman** : Mind if I add you?  
**Familyman** : Let's be friends, kid. 

 **sadmutt** : i'm not exactly friend material, but have at it

 _ **Familyman** has sent a friend request._  
_You have accepted **Familyman's** friend request._

 **Familyman** : I think I'll keep you. See you around. 

_**Familyman** has logged out._

 

Regretting it now, Will hovers over the friend list in the left corner of the screen. Familyman is still offline.

_Ping._

 

 **the_butcher** : busy?

 **sadmutt** : just reading a weird conversation from an hour ago

 **the_butcher** : lemme see, i'm at work and i'm bored as fuck

 

Will hesitates. But why the fuck not? He doesn't know either of them, and he owes neither. He copies the logs and sends them over for the_butcher to inspect, already feeling a pathetic sort of kinship forming, since he isn't being bullied or harassed. 

 

 **the_butcher** : i know this one  
**the_butcher** : he's pretty popular on our side of the place  
**the_butcher** : weird he decided to talk to a newbie like you

 

Will can feel his anxiety climbing. 

 

 **sadmutt** : so are you though  
**sadmutt** : popular how? and "our side of the place?"

 **the_butcher** : forums   
**the_butcher** : oh well youll figure it out i guess give it time  
**the_butcher** : he's kind of untouchable  
**the_butcher** : but not as much as his prissy friend. it goes to his head cuz he's the only friend of this one guy everybody respects  
**the_butcher** : he's even started talking like him  
**the_butcher** : he used to type like, illiterate  
**the_butcher** : i guess like me lmao  
**the_butcher** : ha  
**the_butcher** : sad, really

 

There's a sense of community, even in a place like this. He's intrigued. Regulars frequent the public chat and forums, and one of them has taken a random interest in Will. 

 

 **sadmutt** : guess i'm special

 **the_butcher** : guess so. should totally let me know if he says anything else

 **sadmutt** : why?

 **the_butcher** : i'm bored, you're bored, and he's fancypants popular so why not   
**the_butcher** : could be interesting to see what he bitches about  
**the_butcher** : mm, hey  
**the_butcher** : maybe you could get close to the other guy too  
**the_butcher** : familyman doesn't spill anything  
**the_butcher** : they're tight, or at least he thinks they are  
**the_butcher** : some people think they might be for real

 

If Will was a dog, his ears might have swiveled forward. Nothing to get excited over, he thinks. Can't be even remotely true. But if it was...He can't very well find out, and he imagines reporting this sort of thing to the police might get him outed as a weirdo (more of a weirdo than everyone thinks he is already) and he'll be branded an idiot if he's wrong. People already avoid him like the plague.  
  
For whatever reason, he feels the need to say goodbye rather than just log off.

  
  
**sadmutt** : we'll see  
**sadmutt** : i'm headed to bed

 **the_butcher** : add me first before i forget your username

 

Will complies. 

 

 **sadmutt** : done. bye.

 **the_butcher** : sweet dreams

 

It's time to turn off his brain, if possible. Will shuts down the computer and sets it aside, stacking the papers on top, but he just adds clothes to the ground so it's not much of a cleanup. He kicks off his boots and shrugs into nothing but an undershirt and boxers, briefly washing his mouth before falling straight into bed. It doesn't even bounce a little, it just squeaks in protest. It's a wonder he wakes up with his back fully functional every morning. Briefly, he jots down a mental note to save up for a new mattress, if not a bed frame to go with it. New pillows, too. God, that will take so long, he might as well not even bother. He glances at the overflowing trash of takeout and pizza boxes stacked beside it. No, he can't even regularly afford groceries, might as well give up now. 

He spends the next hour worrying in the dark about his expenses and the fact that he needs a new job. He quit last week because his coworker kicked a stray dog in the parking lot, right after work. Will practically had a fit. He couldn't work with someone like that without wanting to strangle him day in and day out. By the time he got to his car, the dog was long gone and probably wouldn't have come to him anyway. He really wants a dog, but can't yet convince himself he needs one. What could he possibly have to offer? That night, though, he would have taken it home. 

Will sucks at letting himself have things. 

He worries about exams, and he worries about the legality of the website he spent the evening poking around on. He worries about too much, and he worries himself to sleep. His nightmares worry him awake. 

 

* * *

 

 

Against his better judgement, Will pulls out his cell at the start of class the next afternoon. Telling by the projection at the front of the room, it's a review day, and he hardly needs it. If it weren't for the penalty of absences, he would leave. He navigates quickly to the website, logging in and into his private chats in case some sort of disgusting advertisement pops up and wandering eyes catch sight of it. Then he feels foolish. What does he expect? _Sexy Cannibals Near You! Beat Your Murder Meat!_

For a moment he thinks he may have confused his reasons for joining, and flushes. He really should avoid this. It's unhealthy and weird, like everything else about him, but worse. 

Will isn't into murder for murder's sake, nor does he receive sexual gratification from the idea of it. Not at all. It's not about that. _Then what is it?_

He doesn't expect his two cohorts to be online, or even answer him if they are, but almost immediately he gets a message from the_butcher, as if in waiting.

 

 **the_butcher** : you're back  
**the_butcher** : i guess you weren't scared off after all

 **sadmutt** : are you online all the time?

 **the_butcher** : i get a notification if my friends are on. but yeah basically i am  
**the_butcher** : i work long hours and it usually involves surveillance so  
**the_butcher** : i literally have nothing else to do  
**the_butcher** : i make my usual rounds you know, liveleak, bestgore, etc, nothing else left but talking to losers all day  
**the_butcher** : facebook is boring

 **sadmutt** : you sure you aren't just boring?

 **the_butcher** : ha, ha.   
**the_butcher** : wyd

 **sadmutt** : class

 **the_butcher** : shit. you're a kid aren't you get off of here

 

What keeps giving people that impression? It's not like they can see his face. Not that he would admit he looks like a kid, even if he does (and everyone else says so). 

 

 **sadmutt** : i'm not 

 **the_butcher** : good  
**the_butcher** : 25  
**the_butcher** : you?

 **sadmutt** : give or take...

 

Twenty-three, really, but whatever.

 

 **the_butcher** : cautious giving out personal info online, nice  
**the_butcher** : but i can't really track you down with just your age so you can chill out a bit  
**the_butcher** : even if i was gonna come "get" you

 **sadmutt** : you mentioned two people yesterday. who might be for real, you said.

 **the_butcher** : yeah  
**the_butcher** : you talk to him again? 

 **sadmutt** : no, not yet

 **the_butcher** : you should

 **sadmutt** : he's...intimidating

 **the_butcher** : you know you're on a shock site right. grow some balls  
**the_butcher** : anyway, you should meet the other one if you think he's scary  
**the_butcher** : really something, to put it lightly

 **sadmutt** : you could always do it yourself, you know

 **the_butcher** : they don't like me very much  
**the_butcher** : i pester them, they don't tell me a damn thing i don't already know or hear from someone else  
**the_butcher** : come on  
**the_butcher** : do it  
**the_butcher** i'll owe you  
  
**sadmutt** : all right, i'll send him something later

 **the_butcher** : sweet  
**the_butcher** : what are you in school for

 

It can't hurt.

 

 **sadmutt** : vet tech. i'm bad with people

 **the_butcher** : pretty sure you'll still have to work with them

 **sadmutt** : yes, but animals make it easier

 **the_butcher** : i hear that

 **sadmutt** : so what do you do?

_**the_butcher** has changed their status to Away._

 

All right, then. Feeling pressured and irritated, Will stuffs the cell back into his pocket and gives the lecture his full attention. That is, until a hand slaps on his shoulder and he's greeted by three students in succession, all giddy and late, and much too excited. Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian. Quite possibly his only acquaintance-friends in the world, who felt sorry for him on his first day and decided unanimously to adopt him in like a stray dog. He does love them, but the small child inside him insists he is just a pity project gone too far. 

Nevertheless, Bev's smile instantly brings one out on his own face, and Jimmy nudges him to scoot over while Brian makes a show of feigning irritation at being forced to sit next to Jimmy. The three tone down to hushed whispers as the entire class turns their nosy heads in Will's direction. He wants to sink under the table. 

"Late lunch?" Will muses quietly, once everyone becomes more interested in the presentation on the screen. 

"Great lunch," Jimmy quips.

"Could've joined us, but we didn't know where you went," Beverly offers, leaning into the seat as she goes through the process of tying up her silky black hair in a messy bun. Unsurprisingly, it looks perfect.

"Will was too busy on his phone," Brian comments, peeking around Jimmy to focus on the mild surprise in Will's eyes. "Yes, I saw you. I admit I don't know who, though. I'm not a hawk. Care to tell?"

"Because it's so odd to see me on my phone."

"Talking to someone, yes," Jimmy mumbles, eyebrows raised, as if to say, "this isn't my business though!" while commenting on it anyway. 

"I could have been googling something."

"You would have just said that from the start if you were," Beverly says with a smirk, but they stop teasing him and very earnestly begin to pay attention. Will pulls out a notebook and takes turns jotting down notes with Bev, one of them writing for a few minutes, then passing the pad to the other to take over. Jimmy takes his own, and Brian promptly goes to sleep. 

 

* * *

 

An exhausted young man sets his bags and books down at the corner of his desk, taking the time to prepare everything for a study session later, before he finally gives in and lies down on the luxurious and expensive sheets of his bed. His body sinks, quite nearly disappearing, or so it feels. His mind wanders and his maroon eyes drift closed, only to open at the familiar,

 _Ping._  

A groan nearly escapes his fine mouth, but he is disciplined enough to cut his frustration short and check the message.

_"Hope you had a wondrous time in class. I certainly did. Remember the party tonight. See you there. Your sweet Alana awaits, don't leave her to me or I might just steal her away."_

"She's not mine," he murmurs, rolling the consideration around on his tongue before deciding Abel can certainly attempt to charm her if he likes, but it probably won't work, and Alana will tell him all about it tomorrow with laughter in her eyes. 

For now, he needs to sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

After sneezing several times in succession, Will finally manages to take a deep breath and mumble some half-assed apologies while scrunching up his nose to prevent yet another attack. His head feels foggy and his eyes burn a little, and he’s been fighting some sort of a minor cold for a few days now. It’s not a good idea to be carpooling in Beverly’s tiny car, and it’s probably even less wise showing up to class at the local shelter for a demonstration, but his heart melts at the thought of seeing some dogs. Wagging tails, soft fur, big eyes, lolling tongues. Happy to meet you, no matter who you are.

It’s no contest, really.

The shelter allows students to come in often and practice taking blood, or do cleanup. Small things like that. Other days, they observe certain procedures in an animal hospital nearby. It’s quiet, save for the barking, which might as well be music to Will’s ears. He had a dog once, growing up in Louisiana, but it was hit by a car and Will was utterly devastated. Dad made it a point afterward to keep a “no pets” rule. It was his way of protecting his son, but fuck. It didn’t help.

 _I could have used a dog. I still could_ , he thinks solemnly. It’s been a lonely road, and it’s not like anyone else is ever going to accept every fucked up part of him without question.

Jimmy and Brian are arguing in the back seat, shoved too close together for their liking, and Beverly is threatening to pull over (not really). In her exasperated, motherly tone, “I’m going to make you two hold hands until you apologize to one another and get the fuck along. Shut up. We’re almost there. Next time, we’re taking your car, Jimmy.”

Will checks his phone.

 

 **the_butcher** : just get one

 

It’s become a habit. Get online. Talk a bit. Do something else. Check back later. His daily routine has evolved to include the_butcher, who has proven to be a reliable consultant on all things, from what kind of pizza to order, to which movies are worth renting?

 

 **sadmutt:** maybe

 **the_butcher** : you’ll just gripe about wanting one until you do it

 **sadmutt** : what if I end up adopting the whole shelter

 **the_butcher** : you probably will

 

Probably.

“Jesus, Will, quit sniffing! You sound like you’re crying! Wait, are you crying?”

“Leave him alone, the weather sucks, I think I’m getting sick too.”

“No, you just _always_ sound like you have shit up your nose.”

“Knock it off!”

Will is more than happy to exit the vehicle once Beverly swerves into an empty space. The grating sounds of bickering become muffled as he shuts the door behind him and makes his way to the front of the shelter. Most of the class has already arrived, inside already, he imagines. He slows down to wait for the trio from hell to catch up, and takes a moment to sneeze again.

It’s overcast today, and the bitter cold of winter is close to arriving. It always looks like it might rain, except it doesn’t, and the wind is piercing and ridiculous, blasting his hair in all directions to enforce the “eccentric” look. Maybe he can pull it off. He sighs and absently rubs his face against the upturned collar of his coat, shuffling his feet until Beverly strides past and pulls him along, arm in arm.

Inside, it’s warm, and it smells like what you might expect an animal shelter to smell like. Not necessarily bad, just clearly dog-smell, and probably something else he can’t quite figure out. Cleaning products. The class is gathered around a professor, listening intently to a volunteer that works here, their face animated and excited by the help they’ll be receiving today. Most shelters around here are volunteer-run, and make no real profit. It’s a nice thing, classes coming in to provide free aid on a regular basis.

Beverly leans in so close to his ear that Will shivers and must fight himself not to instinctively draw back. “Who do you talk to all the time these days, Will?” He throws her an incredulous look that she would bring this up now, or at all. Her eyes flash with gentle mischief.

He clears his throat and licks his lips before answering, staying near the back of the crowd as they pile into a room full of baying and whimpering animals. “It may surprise you to know, I do have friends beyond you three.”

“One has to, I imagine, or forgo the idea of friendship at all.” She rolls her eyes, seeming satisfied for the moment.

 

* * *

 

It’s a quiet Saturday.

Will considers his options all morning, checks his funds, considers his options again, and stares at the number in his bank account once more for a good long minute.

He breaks, and calls Beverly. She picks him up, as he lacks a vehicle and normally takes the bus, and they hit all the nearby pet supplies stores. Beverly laughs at him for being picky; it takes two tries before he finds a large dog bed worthy of whoever this mystery pup will be, and very meticulously picks out a series of toys.

“It’s an art,” he manages to joke, which earns him a grin and a shake of her head. “I’d buy food but I guess I should wait until I know which dog it is and ask the shelter what they’ve been feeding him.”

“Or her.”

“Or her, yeah.”

“Are you wanting to drop by the shelter today?”

He says no. He needs to let this decision settle with him overnight. Also, “I'll just see who’s got their days numbered, and figure it out in person tomorrow.” Truth be told, he would save one no matter what it looked like or if it even liked him. “I guess I should talk to the landlord, too.”

“You should have done that first, Will.”

“Yeah.”

Beverly helps him load up his loot in the car, and drops him off at his apartment. She offers to come inside and eat his food while he figures out what dogs are an option, but he politely declines and she knows not to push. It would have been the first time anyone besides Will stepped foot in that place since he moved in. It’s too much of a mess, and the offer itself is too different from what he’s used to; which is, being left alone.

“Take care of yourself and call me if you need anything, Will. Take a NyQuil. You sound awful.”

“Thanks.”

The rest of the day flies by with a visit to the landlord, an old woman who is more than happy to see him out of his apartment and treats him too much like a grandson. By the time he makes it out of there relatively unscathed (very terrified that she might offer him dinner), he’s worn out from social interaction and from mild sickness.

Will turns out all the lights, takes a cold pill per Beverly’s instruction, and tucks himself into bed.

Sleep evades him, even with the chemically-induced grogginess taking over his entire existence, making him stupid. He considers his options, and leans across the room to grab his computer and drag it into his lap, pulling up the only place he’s been frequenting lately aside from his regular blogging platform.

**the_ripper** : did u get a dog yet so you can shut up about it

 

Will rubs at his eyes and pulls on his glasses, but it doesn’t bring the bright screen into better focus. He observes the display name change, and the new serial killer posted up on the_ripper’s (previously the_butcher) profile. It doesn’t tug at his memory, so he supposes it’s an obscure one. Perhaps he’s running out of killers and names to choose from. It says he’s been a member for a little over a year now.

 

 **sadmutt** : tomorrow i think.  i bought all the stuff today

 **the_ripper** : stuff? damn what’s a dog need

 **sadmutt** : uh, bowls to eat from, a bed, toys, brush, shampoo, and you know, maybe food

 **the_ripper** : ok whatever  
**the_ripper** : are you doing anything rn

 **sadmutt** : no, not really  
**sadmutt** : i'm sick  
**sadmutt** : why?

 **the_ripper** : oh good  
**the_ripper** : i mean, get well soon or whatever  
**the_ripper** : but i was going to ask because i have some people interested in meeting you

 **sadmutt** : who?

 **the_ripper** : you were taking too long to get back to familyman so i threw our original plan out

 **sadmutt** : "plan" i don't remember coming up with a plan, nor is it ours

 **the_ripper** : yeah well they think you want to talk to them but that you're too afraid to so get ready

 **sadmutt** : what?

 **the_ripper** : just run with it  
**the_ripper** : they only indulge me when it amuses them  
**the_ripper** : maybe they'll actually like you

 **sadmutt** : are you using me?

_**Familyman** has joined the conversation.  
_

**the_ripper** : one  
  
_**Rakshasa** has joined the conversation._

 **the_ripper** : two!

 **the_ripper** : saturday night and none of us have shit to do how sad is that

 **Familyman** : Speak for yourself, Matt. Now that we've graced you with our presence, what do you want?

 

Something isn't quite right here. Not that it matters. This is just a hobby, and "Matt" is just some guy he talks to online (every second of every day, if Matt could have it his way). All the same, he feels a twinge of hurt at the idea that the_ripper is somehow trying to get close to someone else by using Will. But that doesn't make much sense, does it? They're clearly on a first name basis. Will was never offered or asked a name, in all the hours he's spent chatting on and off throughout the week. 

It can't be anything that bad. Matt doesn't strike him as an evil genius. Or evil. Or a genius. 

 

 **the_ripper** : :)  
**the_ripper** : just a friendly chat, my friend wants to meet you  
**the_ripper** : you know him

 **Familyman** : We may have exchanged a few words.  
**Familyman** : Why so quiet, pup? 

 **sadmutt** : matt is full of shit

 **the_ripper** : what

 **Familyman** : What are your real motives, Matt?

 **the_ripper** : don't know what you mean

 **sadmutt** : i don't really care to meet any of you

 **Familyman** : That's rude, pup. 

 **sadmutt** : i'm supposed to be some sort of bait or something, no idea what he wants but i don't appreciate being part of it

 

Briefly, he hopes he hasn't lost a friend, and then he chastises himself for calling the_ripper a friend, even in his own mind. 

 

 **Familyman** : Understandable.  
**Familyman** : Matt?  
  
_**the_ripper** has left the conversation._  
  
**Familyman** : Typical!

 _ **the_ripper** has logged out._  
  
**Familyman** : Well, here we are. No idea what he wants?

 **sadmutt** : he's obsessed with you two, i think

 **Familyman** : Plenty are.

 **sadmutt** : no offense, but why?  
**sadmutt** : i haven't been here very long

 **Familyman** : Obviously. He wants to touch greatness, I imagine.

 **sadmutt** : you are calling yourself that greatness?

 **Familyman** : Who else?

 

Will rolls his eyes.

 

 **sadmutt** : you're a bit full of yourself, aren't you?

 **Rakshasa** : I have to agree, Abel. 

 

Staring at the new name, he realizes this must be the one Matt called more or less untouchable. And Abel? Do they all know each other? For how long?

 

 **Familyman** : You would, though.   
**Familyman** : If there isn't another reason for me being here, I'm better off studying. I suggest you do the same. 

 **sadmutt** : I suppose there isn't

 **Familyman** : Au revoir. 

 _ **Familyman** has left the conversation._  
_**Familyman** has logged out._

 

Will fully expects Rakshasa to make his own exit, but an entire minute passes while Will browses in another tab, and he's still there. Silent and waiting.

 

 **sadmutt** : he's a student, then?

 **Rakshasa** : Yes, I am as well.

 

The answer isn't exactly immediate, but it isn't delayed either. He was waiting to see if Will would say anything. 

 

 **sadmutt** : specialty?

 **Rakshasa** : Medical field, the same as myself. From what I hear, you are in training as a veterinary technician?

 **sadmutt** : uh  
**sadmutt** : yeah  
**sadmutt** : matt told you?

 **Rakshasa** : He may have mentioned it to Abel, who in turn told me. 

 **sadmutt** : is there a specific reason i've become the talk of the town?

 **Rakshasa** : Matthew seems to think highly of you.

 **sadmutt** : we barely know each other.

 **Rakshasa** : Yes, that sort of thing doesn't usually deter him at all. If you have noticed, he has certain obsessive behaviors. 

 

Will considers this.

 

 **sadmutt** : do you and abel know each other?  
**sadmutt** : i mean, outside of this

 **Rakshasa** : Yes. How could you tell?

 **sadmutt** : just a feeling.

 **Rakshasa** : You turned Matthew in immediately.

 **sadmutt** : i don't have a reason to play along in whatever game it is he's playing  
**sadmutt** : why does he act like you two are some big deal?

 **Rakshasa** : Matthew is convinced we are actual criminals.

 

Hovering over the display name, Will right clicks and manages to get the profile on a new tab. It's...empty. All the information he can gather is that Rakshasa's icon is a silhouette of a stag's head. There is no personal information listed (gender, age, bio) and no interests selected. However, the post count for the forums is ridiculously high. Friend list is private. No uploaded photos. 

Both suspicious and perfectly normal, considering. 

 

 **sadmutt** : are you?

 **Rakshasa** : Do mere rumors take hold of your mind so easily?

 **sadmutt** : well, you know what kind of a website this is  
**sadmutt** : you're here for a reason  
**sadmutt** : is it the act itself or the aftermath that gets you going?

 

Why is he bothering with this?

 

 **Rakshasa** : Neither. Which is it for you?

 **sadmutt** : neither...  
**sadmutt** : why are you here?

 **Rakshasa** : Curiosity. I assume your reasons are similar, if you receive no gratification sexual or otherwise from the content uploaded daily. 

 **sadmutt** : how exactly does someone who only feels "curiosity" manage to become a famous whisper in a place like this?

 **Rakshasa** : People are interested in what I say.

 **sadmutt** : why is that?

 **Rakshasa** : I often give advice, or make suggestions.

 **sadmutt** : can you be a little more obscure for me? i didn't quite catch it 

 **Rakshasa** : You have made no attempt to comment on threads, upload your own content or showcase another's, and yet you've been active enough to make nice with both Matthew and Abel. Tell me why that is.

 **sadmutt** : i'm still figuring that out myself. 

 **Rakshasa** : I would be happy to guide you. 

 

Will runs a hand over his face and takes in a deep breath, letting it out just as slowly. He can hear the television in the apartment next to his, and a bed frame smacking rhythmically against a wall. If he walked outside, he would probably smell pot. Saturday night, and he's arguing with a stranger online, sick and alone in his bed. Dogless.

 

 **sadmutt** : guide me in what?

 **Rakshasa** : Discovering why you are here. Perhaps you simply don't care to admit it yet. 

 **sadmutt** : you shouldn't assume  
**sadmutt** : it makes an ass out of u and me

 **Rakshasa** : Quite.

 **sadmutt** : are you really prissy?

 **Rakshasa** : I beg your pardon?

 **sadmutt** : ok, you definitely are.  
**sadmutt** : i asked because matt said you were

 **Rakshasa** : pris·sy

 

 

 

 

 

 

ˈprisē/

 

 

 

_adjective_

 1. fussily and excessively respectable.

  
**Rakshasa** : I'm afraid I can't say no. 

 **sadmutt** : very cute  
**sadmutt** : you're more interesting than matt or abel  
**sadmutt** : abel tries too hard and matt doesn't try at all

 **Rakshasa** : A word of caution, I've been told I'm magnificently boring.

 **sadmutt** : i don't believe that for a second. 

 **Rakshasa** : I've been told. It does not mean I am. I appreciate your faith in me, though. 

 **sadmutt** : would you be willing to give me a rundown of the place? i would be lying if i said i'm not afraid of what i might find on my own  
**sadmutt** : and no one else has offered  
**sadmutt** : there isn't exactly an F.A.Q. either, aha. 

_**Rakshasa** is typing..._

 

Will nearly dozes, resting his head back against a pile of pillows, eyes drooping closed while he waits for the response. The medicine is at its best, and here he is, fighting it when he should be embracing what it has to offer. He so rarely sleeps through the night, and tries his best to stay away from sleeping pills. It's being wasted. He can't bring himself to log out, though, not just yet. 

_Ping._

The tab reads, _You Have (1) New Message_

 

 **Rakshasa** : I advise you to think very deeply on your reasons for being here, and to be careful where you tread. The main purpose is for giving miscreants and general scum a place to gather without fear of the law, under the guise of "roleplaying" and overall discussing fantasies with one another. Of course, you will find that people enjoy sharing depictions of criminal activity around the globe, both staged and real. Rape, torture, and suicide are fair game, as well as actual documented tragedy. If you have not looked at the forums, take care which threads you investigate if any of this troubles you. Often, users get a laugh out of swapping photos of such things. There are places to trade theories on "hypothetical" questions, which I frequent myself. You may wish to purchase a subscription as a premium user, which will open several more opportunities, including livecam footage of (mostly) staged scenarios. I am aware that deals have been made between users to kidnap innocent women and deliver them for a fee. It is about what you might expect. Please, be careful. 

 **sadmutt:** no kidding? **  
sadmutt** : do you do any of this?

 **Rakshasa** : Aside from what I already admitted to you, no, I personally find it distasteful. 

 **sadmutt** : it's tasteless..

 **Rakshasa** : Do you blame them for following their instincts?

 **sadmutt** : i think there is a line that should never be crossed

 **Rakshasa** : Never?

 **sadmutt** : look, you seem like a decent person  
**sadmutt** : so why are you defending them?

 **Rakshasa** : I am not. I am asking you a question, because I am curious about what you think. 

 **sadmutt** : why is everyone so interested in me??

 **Rakshasa** : I can stop, if it causes you discomfort. 

 **sadmutt** : just answer my question  
**sadmutt** : please

 **Rakshasa** : I will tell you when I figure that out, myself. 

 **sadmutt** : a great big help, you are.

 **Rakshasa** : I try my best. 

_**Rakshasa** has sent a friend request._

**Rakshasa** : I hope you don't mind?

_You have accepted **Rakshasa's** friend request. _

**Rakshasa** : Excellent. 

 **sadmutt** : i'm ill and i'm adopting a dog tomorrow so  
**sadmutt** : i'm going to bed

 **Rakshasa** : Interesting stuff. I wish you well. I would ask for your symptoms but I'm afraid I am not yet a licensed doctor, and you are tired. 

 **sadmutt** : i'll give you a run down when i'm more awake, if it makes you feel better

 **Rakshasa** : It does.

 **sadmutt** : well  
**sadmutt** : it was surprisingly nice? talking to you  
**sadmutt** : night?

 **Rakshasa** : The same. Good night. 

_You have logged out._

 

"Matthew" is an absolute raging idiot if he thinks he's stumbled upon an actual murderer in Rakshasa, or even Abel. That is the last thing going through Will's mind as he shoves the laptop aside and disappears under a blanket, asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

He dreams of a dark stag with immense antlers, staring at him from across a stream. They both turn their heads in unison to watch hungry demons that trickle around the edge of a forest, covered in shadow. 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Will names him Winston.

Winston was on the “death row” for dogs, facing the last hours he would spend on this earth. His dark brown eyes, outlined in smokey black and peering from behind mesh fence, melted Will’s heart and it was set from that moment on. Now, in the much too small bathroom, he’s getting a good scrubbing. What looked like dirt turns out to be an odd brindle pattern on Winston’s red-orange coat. The dog wags his tail and licks at his lips, a bit skittish, but certainly excited to be outside of a cage and in the arms of someone who is offering more than just a kind word and the refilling of a food bowl once a day.

A visit to the vet should take place soon, but not today. Winston is in good shape, and adjusting. It can wait a few.

The two adjust to life together relatively fast, and perhaps that’s because Winston is a dog, but he’s a very good dog. Winston follows Will around like a duckling, as if he is Will’s caretaker, and not the other way around. Winston barks away the nightmares, but not so much that the neighbors complain. The walks they take, sometimes several times a day, bring Will out of the apartment and into the sunlight and it does wonders for his general mood.

It feels nice to be needed. It feels nice to exist in a comfortable silence with another living being, no judgement passed between them, no difficulties in communication, no problems at all that can’t be fixed without a treat and a belly rub. 

He might be filling a gaping hole in his heart, it might be unhealthy, but for right now it works just fine. According to Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian, he seems much happier since acquiring a dog.

Eventually, the newness of a dog wears down enough for Will to focus on something besides Winston. Such as catching up on schoolwork, searching the papers for a place to work that might not require too much social interaction.

At night, he gets online, Winston curled up at the end of the bed over his feet. Nice and warm. It's been several days since his last login. 

Right away,

_Ping._

 

 **the_ripper** : hey

 

This shouldn't surprise him as much as it does.

 

 **the_ripper** : i guess i'm sorry about springing that on you  
**the_ripper** : you haven't been on in a while so  
**the_ripper** : i got worried or whatever

 **sadmutt** : it's fine.  
**sadmutt** : i got a dog, remember?

 **the_ripper** : oh yeah  
**the_ripper** : neat  
**the_ripper** : how is it

 

It's as easy as that. No hard feelings. 

Matt must be as lonely as Will was. (Or still is, just in denial.) He doesn't know how he hasn't seen it until now. He takes pity on him and resigns himself to making small talk, even though his body is screaming for sleep once he realizes Matt is the only one online; and then he feels bad, so he puts forth even more effort.

What was he expecting? Most people have a life. He and Matt are in similar boats. It’s why they have been so good at chatting on and off for the past couple of weeks. Although, it’s starting to feel demanding now that Will has a dog to fulfill his social needs.

Is that pathetic?

An hour or so passes with them discussing which classics are overrated and what movies should be considered classics instead, and it seems they either enjoy a lot of the same things or Matt is seriously kissing his ass.

Will pulls up the forums and gathers his courage.

It isn’t as bad as he thought, but he’s also avoiding threads like _Fight Ends In Murder-Suicide: Brain Matter Galore_ and sticking with more “general” discussion.

**_Rakshasa_ ** _is online._

 

Will sits up a little straighter. He hasn’t been online since the night they met. Would Rakshasa mind a private message? Wouldn’t that be creepy? Matt does the same thing, but he has no shame. Will can't pull that off.

_You Have (1) New Message:_

 

 **Rakshasa** : Good evening.

 

Well, never mind.

 

 **sadmutt** : hey

 

It’s back to the drawing board again. "That's all I got," he says out loud, nibbling at his bottom lip. He exchanges a look with the dog. Winston lifts his head innocently and crawls up to the front of the bed, tail swishing softly while Will runs his fingers through silky fur. 

 

 **Rakshasa** : How have you been? You were ill, when we spoke last.

 **sadmutt** : much better, thank you for asking.

 **Rakshasa** : And your dog?

 **sadmutt** : did i tell you i was getting one? 

 **Rakshasa** : I believe so.

 **sadmutt** : i was sort of hopped up on cold medicine.   
**sadmutt** : yeah, he's been great  
**sadmutt** : his name is winston

 **Rakshasa** : He has some big shoes to fill.   
  
**sadmutt** : i haven't had a dog since i was a kid  
**sadmutt** : do you have dogs?

 **Rakshasa** : My family kept dogs while I was growing up, as well. For hunting, mostly. I did not bond with them.

 **sadmutt** : but you like dogs?

 **Rakshasa** : I don't have a problem with them. 

 **sadmutt** : ah, a cat person

 **Rakshasa** : We had cats, too, but no.

 **sadmutt** : do you not like animals?

 **Rakshasa** : I like them fine.

 **sadmutt** : just not a pet person, then. 

 **Rakshasa** : I think the idea just simply hasn't crossed my mind. 

 

It's such a casual conversation, and it pours out of his fingers so easily once it gets started. Will runs through a list in his head, getting his priorities in order. There are a few things he wants to ask, now that he's thinking about their last encounter. 

 

 **sadmutt** : matt said you only had abel as a friend  
**sadmutt** : you added me almost instantly  
**sadmutt** : was he just shitting me, or am i really that special?

 **Rakshasa** : I do very rarely add contacts. You are among the few. 

 **sadmutt** : still don't know why i'm so interesting?

 **Rakshasa** : The reason escapes me now.

 

He smirks to himself, and must forcibly remove it from his face. 

_Ping._

 

 **the_ripper** : hello?

 **sadmutt** : sorry  
**sadmutt** : i got distracted

 **the_ripper** : dog?

 **sadmutt** : yeah  
**sadmutt** : he's being a handful

 **the_ripper** : told you it was a mistake

 **sadmutt** : you never said that lol

 

A little white lie won't hurt him. As if to reassure Winston, who has no clue about any of this and would hardly be offended anyway, Will scratches him behind the ears and tells him he's a good boy. 

 

 **sadmutt** : my attentions are being demanded 

 **Rakshasa** : So soon? 

 **sadmutt** : no  
**sadmutt** : i'm staying  
**sadmutt** : but  
**sadmutt** : matt.

 **Rakshasa** : I see. 

 **sadmutt** : i'm not sure how to kindly say, "not right now" while remaining online  
**sadmutt** : he's an asshole but i'm not going to hurt his feelings  
**sadmutt** : well i doubt it would but  
**sadmutt** : you know  
**sadmutt** : he knows i don't really talk to anybody so if i fuck off and stay here he'll know i'm talking to one of you

 **Rakshasa** : Is that a problem?

 

Good question. Is it?

 

 **sadmutt** : i guess it's just uncomfortable.  
**sadmutt** : i have problems with social expectations  
**sadmutt** : and he so clearly has a thing for/against you guys  
**sadmutt** : although i'm not sure what it is, exactly

 **Rakshasa** : We could speak on another platform. 

 

That would require entrusting Rakshasa with personal information, and aside from that, Will doesn't have anything else to use, except his own phone number. 

 

 **sadmutt** : i don't have anything else

 **Rakshasa** : Nothing at all?

 **sadmutt** : i could download something but my laptop is pretty cheap and old and fucked up and it hardly functions as it is  
**sadmutt** : i can't imagine how it would handle it

 **Rakshasa** : Do you have a phone?

 

Will leans back. Winston sighs. 

 

 **sadmutt** : i'm not sure if i want to do that  
  
**Rakshasa** : It's wise to be cautious. It would be all too easy to determine the area you live in, with just a phone number. 

 **sadmutt** : and considering where we met

 **Rakshasa** : Yes, that too. 

 **sadmutt** : and texting is incredibly slow

 **Rakshasa** : Calling is an option. 

 

Something stirs low in his belly, and he doesn't like it. It feels like fear, but not quite. He can hear the specter of Beverly, whispering in his ear, "Why not? Live a little, Graham, damn." 

It's horribly stupid.

It's foolish.

It's going to get him killed.

 

 **sadmutt** : okay. 

 

What is this sorcery? 

 

 **Rakshasa** : I must admit I'm mildly surprised, but pleased. I would rather like to speak with you, without the barriers of limiting our interactions to messaging only. 

 **sadmutt** : sure.  
**sadmutt** : i'll give you mine?

 **Rakshasa** : If you prefer.

 **sadmutt** : um  
**sadmutt** : will you call me or i call you?

 **Rakshasa** : Again, whatever makes you feel more comfortable. 

 

Damn him. 

Will gives some lame, unbelievable excuse to Matt, while fumbling around on the bed. Pats at his sheets, as if looking for something. He's not. He avoids giving his number just yet. He shifts, grabbing his phone off the bedside dresser, and takes a peek. No messages, no calls, no notifications, save for a few likes and reblogs on tumblr. Embarrassing, really. No one wants to talk to him except a strange man online who could be a murderer, for all he knows. Who could potentially murder him, now that he can find out where Will lives.

This is not smart at all.

His stomach churns with frantic nervousness, and he wants to laugh at himself, as well as cry.

He provides Rakshasa with the number and logs out. He closes his laptop. He opens it back up again and pulls up the browser, searching desperately for something to do in the meantime, something to look at, something to distract from his anxiety. His panicking hands settle on Winston, who gives a big doggish grin and licks at his fingers reassuringly. He waits. By the time his phone lights up, vibrating with the call of an _unknown number_ , he almost changes his mind. Part of him wants to throw up, and part of him wants to chastise himself for being so pathetic and incompetent.

It buzzes a moment, or two, or three, and he picks it up. 

At some point he answers, holds the cell to his ear, and swallows. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end is not at all what he was expecting, if he had expected anything at all. "Hello."

"I don't usually do this," Will splutters, virtually tripping over himself to get the ball rolling, so he won't have to sit in the awkward silence that almost always ensues when he takes part in a conversation. "I don't usually just give people my number. Actually, what am I talking about, I never do this. Was this a bad idea?"

"Not at all. I have no plans to make you regret it." It isn't as intimidating, hearing him speak an entire sentence. He is so obviously foreign, his accent laced with a softness that is incredibly pleasing to the ear, and his tone is rather naturally low. _He's young_ , Will thinks. _My age, more or less. How much older? He's certainly older, has to be. Where is that accent from? I've never heard it._

He realizes he has fallen silent, and visibly jumps to attention. "Right, I didn't mean to imply that you did. I'm just-" 

"Not used to calling strangers? We have that in common." 

Will allows the tension in his muscles to slowly ease its way out with each passing breath. "I hate to sound like a broken record, but I'm wondering why me." He pauses. "I'm going to find out anyway if I want, so where are you from?"

"Originally?" 

"Well, I guess, but I assume you're calling from inside the states somewhere." 

"Lithuania."

"How obscure, just like everything else about you so far," Will muses, and this earns him the most pleasant, barely audible chuckle from the other end of the line. His skin prickles with delight, and he doesn't know why. 

"Do I hear the hint of a Cajun accent, myself?"

"Wow. You sure you haven't already stalked me? You're good." No one else has ever picked up on it. Will supposes it must be easier to notice small traits such as this when stripped of the option to focus on an outward appearance instead. The thought soothes him.

"That I am," agrees the stranger.  

It puts a smile on Will's face. Winston noses at his hand. He lightly grabs the dog's muzzle, fingertips poised like bared teeth. Winston makes a happy noise and resumes wagging his tail, biting just as tentatively. He _woofs_  his excitement.

"Winston, I presume?"

"I should admit I normally have a hard time talking to people," Will confesses suddenly, though it surely goes without saying. 

"But not with me."

"Not nearly as much, no." 

"Interesting," the voice ventures, openly curious. Will can hear mild laughter in the background, and it sounds like a lot of people. Is he interrupting something? As if reading his mind, "Pay no attention, I've just escaped a group study session. I wanted to." Gentle reassurance. He somehow knows exactly what Will needs to hear. 

"Is Abel there?" is all Will can think to ask. 

"Yes, actually."

"I don't want to talk to him, I just wondered. Must be quite a story, you two meeting, ending up on the same unconventional website. Which came first? How did that go?"

"Should I reveal to you all my secrets, already?

"Is that your way of flirtatiously changing the subject, or just a deflection?" 

"Yes." 

Will huffs, biting back the retort "Cute." and instead proceeds with, "Predictable." 

Quiet. Static. A relaxed sigh. "What may I call you?"

His mouth goes dry, and he exchanges a glance with Winston, who stares up at him in adoration. Cheering him on. He resumes dragging his fingers through Winston's coat, appreciating the smooth texture. It relieves his nerves. "My name is Will. I think you owe me yours now," he says, making a special effort to keep his voice steady.

"Hannibal."

"Of course," Will remarks with a grin. Of _course_ it would be something utterly... _pretentious._  "Nice to meet you, Hannibal." He drawls out the name, testing it on his tongue. 

He can almost hear the smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Will." 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The black stag plagues his dreams, beautiful and terrifying, roaming about in his mind as though it belongs there, has always been there. The creature remains relatively docile, following Will around and coming closer with each passing night. He lets it, often reaching out to lay a hand along its flank, but it always shies away or suddenly spooks, dashing off into the cluster of trees and out of sight. The dream ends there, always, with Will reaching after it, heart aching with disappointment. The emptiness in its absence is overwhelming.

Now, entirely awake and mulling it over, he sits at the edge of a lake with his fishing pole and Beverly moodily fussing with her own beside him. Winston lets loose a series of barks, chasing birds along the shore. It’s cold, the air crisp and tainted with the smell of burning leaves somewhere in the distance. He spares a glance up. The sky is a permanent grey, threatening to rain. A bluff.

This is peaceful.

Until Beverly begins cursing under her breath and drops her pole on the rocks in defeat. A corner of Will’s mouth tugs upward, but he manages to keep it shut. He hasn’t caught anything either, but that wasn’t the point. It’s the wait that he enjoys, the silence and the calm of his surroundings.

She breaks first. “You look good, Will,” she observes, leaning back on her elbows and blowing out a wisp of warm breath. She means it. “How’s the new job at the pet store going?”

His mood sours at the mere mention of it. “I’ll be genuinely surprised if I’m not fired within the month. I’m sure I come off as an asshole, even when I’m not actually being one. But I’m trying.”

“I know you are. It could do you some good, having to interact with customers.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Yeah, well, I stand by my statement.”

He hums his disapproval. Winston comes crashing between them, holding a heavy tree limb in his jaws in offering.

“Look at you, you’ve got yourself a stick,” Beverly coos, petting him on the head and tugging at the “stick” until Winston huffs and starts to pull backward. His tail swishes to and fro and he digs his paws into the ground, spraying pebbles everywhere. “He’s a good boy.”

“He is,” Will agrees with pride. He has come to find that Winston is also incredibly smart along with his easygoing temperament. There must be some collie or shepherd in him somewhere. He could get a test done, but it’s not a serious thought. It doesn’t matter what Winston is.

His phone vibrates against his thigh from inside his jeans pocket. The accompanying jolt in his stomach makes it hard for him to ignore it. It could only be one person. Running his tongue over his lips, he shyly fishes it out only to shove it back in when his friend sticks her nose right in the middle of his personal bubble. She strains to see, unsuccessfully, before he puts it away. He didn’t even get to look.

“Why won’t you tell me,” Beverly whines, stretching her legs out and kicking at the ground. “I’ve tried to be polite and wait, but you get that look on your face every time you pick the damn thing up.”

“It’s not what you think it is.”

“I’d know that if you told me what it _was._ ”

“It’s just a friend.”

Most of his free time is spent tentatively checking for messages, and silently celebrating when one arrives. Calls have been limited to only special occasions; or, whenever Hannibal asks. Will never does. He isn’t brave enough, too fearful of the possibility of rejection. If this bothers Hannibal, he doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t seem to worry over mundane things like that, he just does whatever he wants to do, says whatever he wants to say, and if it works out, it works out. If it doesn’t, no sweat.

Maybe he can teach Will to do that sometime.

They pack up and into Beverly’s car, with nothing to show for the couple of hours spent and with Winston determinedly clutching a thin stick he accepted to trade in place of the larger limb. When Beverly lays her hands on the wheel and puts the key in the ignition, Will feels safe enough to check his texts alone.

 

_I hope you are enjoying the weekend outside. You seem like the type that would fully appreciate the fall season. Soon it will be too cold._

_Unfortunately for me, I made the unwise decision of joining friends for lunch…I find your company to be much more stimulating._

Will flushes and blames his redness of skin on the cold, even though no one asks.

 

* * *

 

 

Beverly shames Will into accepting her offer of lunch, since he dragged her out to fish all morning and they “didn’t even catch anything!” A fruitless hunt on a Saturday _. A Saturday!_ she exclaims.

“We can eat in an outside area,” she insists when he brings up the fact that Winston is with them. He checks over his shoulder and sure enough, the dog smiles right at him, painfully oblivious to Will’s discomfort at the idea.

Winston decides to be a perfect angel, as usual, and gives no reason for Will to tell Beverly no. The fluffy bastard is too pure for his own good, with his disgustingly floppy ears and adorable wet nose.

Beverly parallel parks in the street downtown, undeterred by the immense traffic and the crowd of weekenders milling about everywhere on foot. Will swallows and puts on a brave face. _Do it for her, she’s always been nice to us and we only started to actually hang out recently. It’s just lunch. At least Jimmy and Brian aren’t here to make it unbearable with their constant back and forth. That’s it, Graham. Look on the bright side._

 _I need medication_ , he groans inwardly, and fetches his dog from the back seat. He clips a leash to the harness and Winston obediently hops out, nose going straight to work as he takes in all the new smells around him.

Nothing phases him. “Good boy.”

The stroll itself isn’t so bad. The trio pass groups of window shoppers, baby strollers with (screaming) children, and packs of giggling teenagers that “aww” at his dog and thankfully pay no mind to Will, who is happy to let Winston be the center of attention. Winston likes it, too.

“Winston is quite the ladies’ magnet,” Beverly points out with the beginnings of a smirk.

“As long as it’s him and not me,” Will grumbles, and then he feels stupid for having said it out loud.

Passing a more upscale restaurant, he flicks his eyes to a group of chattering young adults, no doubt fellow students (but better-dressed by far), crowded around an outside table with steaming mugs of coffee in front of each of them. Deep in conversation, very animated. He wonders how much just one coffee costs. How students can afford to casually gather in places like that (and dress so well) is beyond him.

One of them meets his wandering gaze by accident and Will looks down, eager to move on.

“Beverly!”

Oh _, no._

“Alana,” Beverly calls back, turning to face the group Will had been watching. She preemptively tugs at Will’s sleeve so he has no other choice but to follow, at a loss for words. Winston trots ahead in cautious excitement, straining the leash.

_Breathe. Be polite, excuse yourself and walk away._

A beautiful, pale woman (Alana, it seems) with dark hair gathers Beverly into what is no doubt a warm hug, as she has several layers of clothing to battle the October chill. It doesn’t look silly or affect her prim, ladylike style at all.

“How are you?” she asks, and then to Winston with obvious delight, “A dog! What’s his name?”

“Winston.” _Yeah, don’t mind me._

“I’m Alana Bloom,” the woman offers, sticking her hand out to Will, who realizes with a start he has to take it. Her grip is thankfully gentle, like the rest of her.  

“Will Graham,” he manages, clearing his throat and trying to sound more pleased than afraid.

“Will is my friend and classmate,” Beverly explains expertly, taking over for poor Will. Bless her. “I went to high school with Alana, Will. The stories she could probably tell you…”

“Another time, maybe.” Alana smiles. It compliments her. “Come meet everyone, I insist.” The attention shifts and she gestures to the curious expressions at the table. Will refuses to look.

 _No_ , he thinks, but Beverly walks over and he instinctively trails after her rather than stand around awkwardly. He focuses on the small of her back.

He only lifts his eyes when he hears his own name being mentioned.

“This is Beverly Katz, you guys. You’ve heard of her.” A pause for laughter. “And her friend, Will Graham, and his dog Winston. Beverly, Will, these are my classmates Barney Matthews,” a short but kindly black man who looks as uncomfortable as Will feels, “Abel Gideon…” Will freezes, blood run cold. “…and Hannibal Lecter.” Very cold.

Whatever is said next, Will misses it.

Abel Gideon is a stocky individual, sharp in the eyes with short, dark hair that is a little unkempt and not on purpose. He looks wild. He studies Will like a cat who has seen a mouse, and then dismisses him with a small wave and a wink.

He knows.

Hannibal, he can only stand to look at for a second. Hannibal gives nothing away, no outward sign of recognition other than the upward curve of his lips, which could mean anything. Is this sort of a happy accident genuinely possible?

He is what Will can only describe as painfully gorgeous, all angles, clean with high cheek bones and wrapped in an unbelievably expensive coat and a scarf around his neck. Deep red, like the terribly unreal maroon of his eyes. His hair is a rich brown and somewhat windswept, and he’s looking directly at Will and nowhere else, even when Will tears his eyes away and focuses on the ground. He can _feel_ it.

Will’s body screams to run, and not just because of the odd circumstances. His skin prickles under the sense of there being something entirely other than human, and dangerous, close by. A bigger predator. He can’t breathe.

Too close, too coincidental, danger, danger. Why are they here?

Slowly, his hearing returns.

“…Won’t you join us?”

“I just remembered there’s something I need to look at,” Will croaks, and walks away.

 

* * *

 

 

He wanders around for an hour until Winston falls behind, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Will apologizes, crouching down to his level. They sit together on the side of the road until he decides to answer the constant ringing of his phone.

 

* * *

 

 

“What in the fucking hell was that, Will? I couldn’t find you, and you wouldn’t call me back. I thought you’d gone off and gotten yourself hit by a car or had a mental breakdown and done something stupid.”

He sits in the warmth of the passenger seat, heat blowing right on him. Beverly heaves a sigh. Will buries his face into Winston, who lies in his lap despite being too big. He hugs him as tight as he can without hurting him.

“I met someone online.”

“You what?”

“It was one of them. I recognized the name and freaked out. I’ve never seen them until today. I didn’t even realize we lived…this close.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Beverly gasps, clenching the wheel at this, as though it explains everything. Her irritation with him melts away into intrigue. “That’s why you ran off like you’d seen a ghost.”

“I did not _run_ ,” Will mumbles, voice muffled by fur. “I just didn’t know how to act. Do you know how awkward it would have been?”

“ _Was_ ,” Beverly corrects. “I had to do my best to convince them you weren’t a lunatic.”

“Great.”

“You’re welcome. So, who?”

“Who what?”

“Who was it, dork?”

He lifts his head. “Hannibal.”

“Oh, him.” She practically purrs. Will doesn’t like it, it rubs him the wrong way. “You missed out, then. We’ve met a few times, whenever Alana wants me to attend some party or event in lieu of a date. He’s talented, smart, and I have to say, devilishly handsome. Good choice, Will.”

“Handsome” doesn’t really do Hannibal justice.

Will wants to throw himself out of the moving vehicle, but he stays for Winston’s sake. “I ruined it. I had a friend, maybe, and I ruined it, like I ruin everything else.”

“Just explain what happened.”

“How.”

“The truth? You got scared.”

“I didn’t- “

“Yes, Will, you might as well have pissed your pants. You looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Call him, it’ll be fine. He’s a cool guy. He asked about you and everything, like a real gentleman.”

Will ignores this. “I’ll think about it.”

“You had better _do_ it,” she growls, rolling her eyes for good measure. “And you’d better call me, after.”

Will isn’t sure why or what she means by this, but he’s too embarrassed to ask.

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time in a long while, Will walks to the liquor store and buys a whiskey, and heads straight back to the apartment to drink.

It’s just him and Winston, who stares at him with his head cocked to one side. Him, Winston, and his old friend Jack Daniels.

He finally winds down as the alcohol numbs his body, and then his brain. He props up on the end of the bed, bottle resting on the floor below, and watches a rented movie on the pitifully small television across the room. At some point Winston rests his head on Will’s back, and the idea of sleep is a lot more enticing than the shit film Matt recommended.

Something makes an awful noise.

Oh, phone.

He fumbles around to get it, heaving by the time he’s made progress.

 

_I would like to meet you again sometime, properly._

 

Oh.

His mind works slowly, the gears turning and catching, stuttering as he thinks up some form of a decent reply.

 

_i didn’t know you lived hree_

_here_

 

From Hannibal,

 

_I suppose you hadn’t bothered to look up the number yet, or you would have known. I admit I knew, but I had not expected to run into you so soon._

 

No, he hadn’t known. He tries to respond, but all the words keep running together and out of order and he knows how bad it looks. He can’t do this drunk. In a moment of whimsy, he calls. It must be great luck or divine intervention, because it starts ringing and it’s even the right number.

“Hello, Will.”

“Hi,” he breathes. “It’s good to hear you.”

“The same. This is the first time you have called me yourself.”

“I’m sorry about earlier,” it starts coming out in a flood and he can’t stop it, and for all he knows it might not even be intelligible, “You startled me. What did you do that for? Abel knew what he was doing, he made it a hundred times worse, he’s such a creep and I can’t believe you’re friends with him.” Will rolls onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. Winston shifts to avoid being squished, but otherwise doesn’t complain.

“Will, are you intoxicated?”

“What if I am?” he challenges. “I think I deserve it. What in fresh hell was all that? What was I supposed to do?”

A chuckle. A damn _chuckle_.

“I didn’t expect you to be so good-looking,” Will finally decides.

“Oh?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know you are, it doesn’t suit you. I don’t even believe you, I think you like knowing it. I think you revel in it.”

“If it matters, I thought you quite charming, yourself.”

It stirs up something in him he does not want to look at right now. Shut that door.

But he can’t help taking a peek. “It matters,” he says quietly.

“Shall we meet again?”

“I think so.” He hesitates. “Without Abel.”

“Without Abel.”

“And Alana.”

“Agreed.”

“And Beverly. And…”

“Barney.”

“Yeah.”

“What about Winston?”

Will is incredulous. “Of course Winston can come.”

“I didn’t expect any less from you,” Hannibal says. Is Will imagining that tone, or is it real? It makes him feel safe and warm all over. Like arms encircling around him from behind…

“You have a lot to explain to me. I’m tired,” Will sighs. “I should go to sleep, I think.”

“I would agree. Please, take care of yourself.”

“You aren’t my doctor,” he murmurs, eyes already shut. His grip on the phone slips. “You’re my friend.”

He ends the call, afraid to hear anything resembling opposition. All the same, when he stretches out and lays a reassuring arm over Winston, he’s smiling.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

This was a mistake.

Cleaning the apartment is easy, but making it presentable is something else entirely. Nothing matches. All his belongings are made up of different patterns and varying sizes, colors and brands, mostly several years old or salvaged for the low price. It shouldn’t matter, no one is coming, but one day they _could_.

Winston settles in the doorway of the bedroom and watches Will bustle around with cleaning products and bags full of clothes meant to, someday perhaps, be taken to a laundromat. On his hands and knees, he scrubs stubborn stains out of the carpet (behold! he can now actually see his floor, and it looks about as bad as he expected). He stacks books, organizes the papers and notes on his wobbly desk, makes his bed with mix-matched pillow cases, and he even does this dishes. He scours the bathroom, lights a few candles (how old are these? can candles expire?)  and dusts what little furniture he owns.

It gives him something to do, something to focus on, because he has plans to meet Hannibal later. He can’t sit still. It’s only ten in the morning, and all he can think about is the way he embarrassed himself the other night on the phone. He wasn’t out of his mind; he was still in full control. His mouth just got a little loose.

One look at the abandoned whiskey bottle, and he shoves it in the freezer, at the very back. This is all Jack Daniels’ fault. He will not be speaking with him again anytime soon, not when there is even the relative chance of him drunk dialing Hannibal again. Maybe.

_“You aren’t my doctor. You’re my friend.”_

Is he?

 _I know very little about him. It feels like all we talk about is me._ Will steps into the shower and stands under the faucet, letting the steaming water roll down his back and warm him up. He drank a little again last night. His stomach feels a little funny, but beyond that, no hangover. Winston pokes his head past the curtain and Will gently tugs it closed again.

“I’m fine, buddy.”

He could still cancel, and blame it on his bad judgement from last weekend. Hannibal’s company, when it’s virtual, is very welcome and often awaited with great anticipation, day in and day out. Now that it might be physical, Will is a nervous wreck.

Seeing him makes the reality of the situation to sink in.

Polar opposites. Will is an anxious, sad mess covered in dog hair and his clothes are often stained with last night’s takeout. It only took one look at Hannibal to figure he’s on the other end of the spectrum, with his fancy clothes and taste, and he probably spends hours preening in front of the mirror each morning. No doubt, he must strut around like a peacock.   

Perhaps Will isn’t being fair to him, or to himself, as they have yet to actually speak face to face. He knows nothing of Hannibal’s actual mannerisms or habits.

He can’t help but feel he’s right, though.

 _I know him well enough to surmise that_ , he thinks with a smirk. Pretentious peacock. It has a ring to it.

Will still hasn’t called Beverly like she asked him to, or brought it up at all, and he won’t until the end of the day. No need for her to get her hopes up. No need for Will to get _his_ hopes up. By nightfall, surely Hannibal will have realized his mistake. Will. Will is the mistake.

Shouldn’t he just call it off now, then? He’s just spent the whole morning turning his apartment inside out, and no one is even coming over.

He washes himself and dresses in (relatively) clean clothes before finally collapsing on the bed. The candles helped a lot; the apartment smells new and refreshing. He should have done this a long time ago. Unable to tell Winston no, he allows the dog back on the mattress and accepts the dog hair that inevitably sticks to his sweater. Some things can’t be helped.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes every ounce of Will’s self control to not change their destination when he passes a dog park close to the one he chose instead, and then he recalls Hannibal didn’t seem particularly fond of dogs, or animals in general.

“He’d better be nice to you,” he tells Winston, who pads next to him happily.

As much as he didn’t want to, he caught a dog-friendly cab to get this far, and forked over the money without much complaint because at least the driver didn’t try to make small talk. His breathing catches now as he comes in closer proximity to the agreed meeting place, legs weaker and dragging more by the second.

It’s a bright baby-blue day, the clouds fluffier than Winston’s fur, and the temperature is still bearable. It’s a mockery of his inner turmoil. The grass is green, even though the trees are bare and colorful leaves litter the brick pathway he follows. Families settle on laid out towels, parents wrestle with their giddy screaming toddlers, Saturday picnics ensue. The midday sun is high in the sky. It’s all a cruel joke.

All the ambient noise succumbs to a deafening silence once he spots the young man on a bench, one leg draped artfully over the other, looking down into a book and writing what must be notes. Only him. He is no less striking than he was the first time. 

On auto-pilot, Will takes a seat next to him, chewing on his tongue while he thinks up an appropriate greeting.  

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal says without glancing up, slowly tucking his pen inside the book and closing it before he turns to face him. He looks Will up and down, while Will panics inwardly. Concluding the surprise assessment, his approval reveals itself in a warm smile. 

Will clears his throat, busying himself with rubbing his fingers against Winston’s coat in the hopes that it will provide some reassurance. It does, a bit. “Hey.”

“Hello to Winston, as well.”

Responding to his name, Winston sniffs in Hannibal’s direction, interested but cautious. “Be good,” Will says, more to himself than to his dog. Then, “Is this weird? This is weird, isn’t it?”

“Unconventional, maybe. Not necessarily a bad thing.” Hannibal appears thoughtful, and then he _literally_ tilts his head just slightly to one side. It secretly leaves Will in awe. “You look well, Will.”

“I looked unwell last time?”

“That would be putting it lightly. You were quick to drink once you got home." 

“Rude,” Will grunts, and pushes himself to stand. “Let’s walk?”

Hannibal agrees by straightening to his full height, which is intimidating even though Will is only a tad bit shorter than him. He puts the book away (what’s in there, anyway?) into a bag slung over his shoulder, probably full of all sorts of homework Will is distracting him from. Will has forgone the idea of completing his own.

Hannibal is wearing that stupid scarf again, and it still brings out the odd red in his eyes.

Winston takes the lead, and Will lets him. “I rarely drink that much, so don’t be too pleased with yourself. It’s not like I drunk dialed you.” Mm, false, but white lies don't hurt.   
  
“Of course not.”

“You ass,” Will scoffs, sparing a peek to observe Hannibal’s taunting smile. “I’d like to see you drunk, I bet you make an absolute fool of yourself, even more so because you’re so collected when you’re sober.”

“I doubt it, but thank you for the lead-in, that relates to something I was going to ask.”

Oh. “What would that be?”

“Your friend, Beverly Katz, has insisted to Alana that our inner circles come together tonight at a local bar to celebrate ‘the power of friendship,’ I believe is what she said. She may have been intoxicated when she suggested it. Are you going?" 

“I didn’t hear about any of this.”  _Fuck you, Beverly!_

“I was instructed to tell you, myself.”

Fuck Beverly, _twice._ Will has not once mentioned his plans to meet with Hannibal today, not to a single soul, but it would seem everyone is working behind his back. How many times had she tossed him a knowing look in class this week, and he missed it?

“You had all week to warn me,” Will grumbles. “Do you just like to see me squirm? You do. Sadist.”

“I feared you would back out if you allowed yourself to worry about it for an entire week.” Deadpan.

“Manipulative, too,” Will adds decisively, and he earns a genuine laugh. His skin crawls at the pleasant sound.

Will picks up the pace, veering off the path to get a better view of the Chesapeake Bay a ways off. The view is truly something, the water shimmering and all the boats lined up in the harbor, not to mention the moving ones out in the distance. The smell on the wind isn’t so great, but he’s come to find comfort in it. It smells like fishing.

“You shouldn’t be so worried about how you appear to others, Will.”

It comes out of nowhere. Will gets the sense that he’s been backed into a corner, even though he’s out in the open, outside, free to run in any direction. Hannibal is beside him, not behind him. It still feels like someone is breathing down his neck, and it isn’t entirely unwelcome.

“It's that obvious, huh? It isn’t so easy,” he decides after a while, tense.

“If you could see what I see, it would be.”

“What _do_ you see?”

“Potential.”

This is unmarked territory. Will bites the inside of his lip, sighs audibly and looks over to find Hannibal already staring at him, expressionless. “I’m not exactly sure what we’re talking about,” Will admits quietly, knowing how lost he must appear.

Something isn’t right with Hannibal. His words, his movements, all of it is so meticulously chosen and constructed for a specific purpose, all to reach the desired result.

Maybe they aren’t so different, in the end.

Will realizes they’ve been examining each other for too long, or Hannibal has simply been watching him. It’s hard to tell.

“You’ll see. Give it some time.”

Will opens his mouth and shuts it when he can’t think of anything to say.

_some people think they might be for real_

Matthew’s words float around in his head, in and out, for the rest of the afternoon. It has been all too easy to forget where he first encountered Hannibal, and to avoid questioning the dark stuff that must be hiding within this outwardly charming young man. He chastises himself. It applies to him, too.

Hannibal offers to treat him to lunch, but Will is emotionally exhausted and growing more and more jumpy, and trying to think of a way to weasel out of tonight, and how much of an earful he is going to give Beverly. He also isn't comfortable with the idea of being alone with him right now. He politely declines, and mentions something about catching a cab.

If Hannibal is offended, he doesn’t show it.

“It was good to see you, Will. Should I expect to see you again later?”

All it would take is a “no.”

Will holds tight to Winston’s leash, fingernails biting into his palms. “Yeah.” 

Why is this so hard?

“Until then,” Hannibal says with a small nod, and Will walks away. He knows Hannibal is watching him go. He doesn’t have the courage to peer over his shoulder and meet that impossible, smoldering gaze, but he knows it's there.

_What is it you want with me?_

 

* * *

 

 

Will stumbles down the narrow hallway, the floor swaying beneath him and threatening to drop out from under his feet. He puts a hand on each wall, to his right and to his left, for balance and dives for the restroom. The loud midnight crowd echoes behind him, registering as both too much and quite dull, as his brain fights to make sense of the situation. Laughter, arguing, chatter. Breathing fast. Detached.  _You're just drunk, calm down._

He hates the music. It sucks, it doesn’t make any sense, it’s sappy and too slow. The lights are too bright, and he’s been wandering around trying to find the bathroom for much too long and his bladder hurts. He didn’t eat dinner and he drank too much too fast. The events of tonight are fuzzy. He wants to go home, but Beverly got up and walked off somewhere with Brian and he can’t find her. Then he had to pee and well, here he is.

Shoving his way into the empty men’s room, he stumbles to a urinal and places an arm on the wall to keep himself steady. Once business is taken care of, and what a great relief it is, he’s washing his hands and face when the door flies open with a bang. Someone kicked it.

In the mirror, he sees Abel Gideon, who he has tried to avoid all night, what with his incessant staring from across the table.

Will hasn’t said much at all in the time he’s been here, and specifically seated himself between Beverly and Jimmy to avoid both Hannibal and Gideon. Mostly Hannibal.

“Go away,” is all he can muster, zero patience for whatever it is Abel wants.

“I have a right to pee, don’t I?”

 _Well, you got me there!_ “Go on and piss off, then.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange, Will?”

“I don’t particularly give a shit,” he says, and falters around the word “particularly,” so he says it again nice and slow.

The figure in his peripheral moves in for the kill, fast. He pauses and hovers just a foot or so behind Will, who stiffens.

His vision is blurry and unfocused, and so is his ability to think, but this is a threat, he isn’t imagining that.

“I do, I think it’s strange.” Abel’s voice lowers to a whisper, and he leans in to Will’s ear, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Warm breath brushes against skin. This is violating. 

His words linger in the room, spoken carefully and with enough time to sink in a hundred times over. “What are the odds, that we find you there, and you find us here? I wonder what sort of game it is we’re all playing. I wonder why he’s taken such an interest in you, wonder what it is he's really after.”

A hand grasps the back of Will’s neck and gives a squeeze. It doesn’t feel like it’s happening, it’s like he’s watching it from somewhere else. “Don't get me wrong, I’m curious to see what happens, but fair warning, and all that. Run while you can. You’re welcome.” The hand disappears. Will is released.

When Abel has the audacity to go take a piss like nothing happened, the simple sound of a zipper brings Will back into reality. He makes his escape. Everything in his line of sight smears together like wet paint. He needs to get away, far away, doesn’t matter how or where. He darts back into the hallway, door swinging shut behind him. He can hear Abel adding, as if in passing, "Check in with Matthew, will you? He wonders about you these days." 

He bends over in the hall, catching the breath he didn't know he lost. Someone else is coming. He knows before he even sees him. Hannibal approaches warily and is mildly surprised when Will suddenly snags the edge of his coat. He digs his fingers in. “I need to go home,” Will says, without meeting his eyes. “Help me?”

When he doesn’t get an answer right away, “Yes, I’m an asshole, this is the first thing I’ve said to you all night, but I’ve got to get out of here.”

“I do take pride in being a perfect gentleman,” Hannibal replies, but it’s lacking the fondness his snarky replies usually hold, and he is obviously distracted. Before Will can ask, a hand rests in the small of his back and steers him forward. It's very different from the one that touched his neck just a few moments before. “Of course, Will. We will leave right now.”

“Thank you,” Will mutters, still skeeved out and attempting to build a mental fort to keep his most recent memory out.  _Don’t want to think about it right now, can't. Later._ “Where is Beverly?”

“I imagine just about anywhere. I’ll let her and the others know you were feeling ill.”

It’s a miracle Will makes it out into the cold night air without falling on his face at least once. By the grace of God he piles into the front seat of a car that reeks of new leather and he hopes he doesn’t get the urge to puke, or he is going to owe a lot of money. He expects to be left alone, and holds his breath when Hannibal takes it upon himself to buckle Will in and shut the door. Even through all the layers of clothes, it's too much. 

 _I am not doing this_ , Will thinks. _I am not._

He is incredibly drunk and can’t remember most of the ride, or anything said, but guesses he must have given Hannibal directions because very soon they are pulling up to the apartment complex and he should be getting out now, right now. It should end here. 

“I don’t think I can walk,” he says between gritted teeth. 

He blacks out, coming to at the door of his apartment, arm slung around Hannibal’s shoulder and Hannibal holding him up with an arm around his waist. However did he get here? Will wonders faintly, and hands over the keys because he can’t manage to get it unlocked himself.

The next thing he knows, they are inside and Winston is all over him, tail wagging in what he imagines is relief.

The door closes. 

“I suppose I should make sure you manage to get into your own bed without killing yourself,” Hannibal says flatly. _Is he angry with me?_   “You really should learn to control your intake, Will Graham. I won’t always be able to swoop in and save you.”

“I think you kind of liked it,” Will mumbles, allowing himself to be led into the bedroom.

Good thing he cleaned.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Witnessing this sort of vulnerability is not as satisfying as he would have expected to be.

Will is no more than a rag doll, unable to support a single bit of his own weight now, and his mind is wide open to all the possibilities of poking and prodding and manipulating, to the power of suggestion, but this does not currently strike Hannibal as something he wants to do. He would prefer his companion to be entirely sober and aware of his actions. This puzzles him, because where he might normally feel repulsion at Will’s sort of behavior, a sense of protective possessiveness replaces it.

This clumsy, messy, small person, with his rash decisions and smart mouth. It has its charm.

Rudeness for its own sake has always been ugly to Hannibal, but there is no disgust from him where Will Graham is concerned (who is unspeakably rude in his own way). It’s very interesting. He rarely finds himself so attracted or forgiving, let alone to a rude little drunk.

The apartment is distasteful, but for Will’s sake he will endure it a moment longer. It has been recently (and thoroughly) cleaned. Chemicals sting at his nostrils but he can at least appreciate the attempt. The dog is right on his heels when he guides Will into what he assumes is the bedroom.

Will drawls out a string of commands and comments Hannibal can’t quite make out, so he remains silent and gently lowers will to the edge of the mattress. As he tries to remove Will’s heavy arm from around his shoulders, Will catches his fingers quite suddenly. Demanding. Hannibal pauses, giving him a quizzical once-over.

“Why did I ask you?” Will murmurs, and to Hannibal’s delight, in his drunkenness he has decided to finally meet his eyes. It is something that he had almost deemed as impossible for Will until now. “I could have asked anybody to bring me home. I still don’t know you. Not really.”

“I can’t answer that for you, Will.” Hannibal peels Will’s fingers away and prepares to stand. Wandering hands tug him back, catching onto the scarf around his neck.

Again, charming, but…

“Please try not to tear that.”

“Then don’t pull,” Will retorts, as if this solves everything.

Hannibal smiles warmly, amused, and Will is openly enamored by him. It’s as though he has seen something beautiful.

“I don’t know what to think of you,” says Will, who brings Hannibal closer by yanking on the scarf again. It tightens around his throat. He has no choice but to sit next to him or let it rip (he chooses to sit). The gesture is growing on him and he supposes he can always replace the accessory with no trouble. Will can ruin it if he likes. Hannibal will refrain from complaining a second time.

He toys with his options, testing the weight of each one in his imagination before choosing the most appealing. “I have a similar line of thought about you. You are reckless, Will, but I believe I am becoming fond of that.” Will sways, only just barely tuning in to his words, like a distracted child. “How far do you plan to explore this recklessness? Would you let me watch?”

It is all too much for Will’s intoxicated state, but it’s irresistible. Will cannot comprehend what he says now and will hardly remember it tomorrow. Unsurprisingly, Will takes this speech the wrong way, and draws closer still with his fist wrapped tightly around one end of the scarf.

Hannibal allows it. “I think you have been suppressing a few things,” he comments, very aware of the hot breath exchanged between them, the lack of space, Will courageously leaning in so that their lips hover just inches apart. “Will Graham.”

“I think so too,” Will whispers. “I’m afraid of it.”

Of course, they are discussing two different things. Hannibal knows this, but his advice does apply to both. Unable to help himself, he cups Will’s cheek in his hand. Smooths soft skin. He relishes the delayed, drunken reaction it elicits. Will eagerly leans into the touch and the sound he makes is almost sinful.

Will is glorious like this, caught up in the storm of his emotions. Hungering. No longer in denial, on the very edge of freedom. Dark curls fall over his forehead, as wild and untameable as he must surely be himself. His eyes are a frozen wasteland of blue, in stark contrast to the murky, bloodied color of Hannibal’s.

“ _Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice_ ,” Hannibal recites thoughtfully. 

“I don’t know you,” Will repeats, voice dripping with want.

Music to his ears.

“You know me enough.” For now.

“I want to know more.”  

Hannibal savors the sound of those words, letting them sink in. The moment burns into his memory, stored away for later viewing. He cracks a smile, sweeps Will’s hair back, and removes himself. Will whimpers his displeasure at the distance.

“Ask me again tomorrow, small one.”

Will visibly considers it, and makes a big show of finally letting the scarf slip out of his grip. The space between them widens, becomes lonesome and cold. Hannibal makes an approving noise and stands. Instructs Will to lie down. He does so, and falls asleep almost instantly.

Winston places his front paws on the bed and nudges at Will’s foot, which is unresponsive. Will grumbles. Winston throws a curious look over his shoulder at Hannibal, as if to say, “Well, what now?”

“…Hungry?”

Ears perk.

“All right.”

It’s easy to find things, mostly because Will apparently owns very little. He investigates the kitchen. It’s a safe bet that the horrifying homemade…mush…in the fridge is a special dish for the dog, specifically. Will must not trust name brand kibble, and he is probably right not to.

Winston sits patiently now that his needs are being recognized, his tail swishing soundlessly across the floor when the strange man in the kitchen even heats the mush up for him. He dives right into the bowl headfirst as soon as it touches the floor.

The dog out from under his feet, and Will asleep, Hannibal takes the opportunity to walk around the small apartment. He is naturally light on his feet and makes very little noise, although the sounds of traffic outside and indecent conduct in neighboring housing is enough to wake the dead. On a whim, he pokes through a pile of textbooks on a desk. Used, only loaned. The sticker on the back with the return date proves so. Intricate notes jotted down on spare pieces of paper lie between the pages. A terribly drawn stick figure dog that makes him both feel smug at having discovered it and fond. Not much for clothes. Everything appears to be best suited for the outdoors.

It’s so normal and uninteresting, and yet he is enchanted.

Checking back in the kitchen, he picks up the empty bowl Winston is licking and washes it in the sink. Winston follows him back into the bedroom while he sets a glass of water down on the nightstand, where Will can reach it as soon as he wakes.

Will appears to be blissfully dead to the world. Hannibal unwraps the scarf from around his own neck and places it beside the glass in a moment of sentimentalism, fully intending to leave it behind. _Do not forget I was here_. A tentative pat on the head for Winston, and he lets himself out.

In the parking lot, Abel Gideon sits on the hood of Hannibal’s car, legs crossed and hands clasped politely in his lap, absolutely beaming.

Hannibal pulls on a pair of gloves, in the absence of his scarf, and sighs deeply.

 

* * *

 

 

Will wakes up with a big and terrible hangover, and is only conscious for a second before he wishes he was dead. Not because of the splitting headache, or the knot in his stomach, no; because he sees that fucking red scarf and embarrassment makes him want to hang himself with it. 

He groans and rubs at his face with Winston springing into action beside him, all licks and sniffs and bad breath. _What in the hell happened? Start from square one._

_I went with Bev and Jimmy and Brian to the bar…We met Alana and her friends. I didn’t talk to Hannibal the whole time because I’m a fucked up, sad loser. I got drunk. I got very drunk. Beverly disappeared. I…_

He sits up. _Abel Gideon…Hannibal brought me home. I tried to…Oh, no. I didn’t. No. No no no no._ He brushes a couple of fingers over his mouth. He can’t remember doing anything. That’s because he didn’t. But he wanted to. Why didn’t he?

Hannibal didn’t let him.

Oh. Well, then.

He wanted it too, though, right? Didn’t they have a whole conversation about this?

_“Ask me again tomorrow, small one.”_

Small?

Will isn’t sure if he _can_ ask, and now he understands why Hannibal preferred to wait. He is partly grateful, but he is a lot of other things, too.

_“I think you have been suppressing a few things, Will Graham.”_

The fingers stroking his cheek, running through his hair. Breath mixing together, but no more than that.

This is just great.

It’s late afternoon and the first thing he does is feed Winston, who must be starving, and Will feels like total shit over it. In good conscience, afterward, he showers and changes into different clothes, brushes his teeth. Waits to see if he needs to vomit. He doesn’t. He downs the glass of water on the nightstand and refills it several times. He doesn’t touch the scarf, leaves it where it is. Finally, he checks his phone. Fucking hell.

All from Beverly,

 

 **_11:39 PM:_ ** _where the fuck’d you go lol_

 **_11:45 PM:_ ** _will_

 **_12:01 AM:_ ** _WILL_

 **_12:22 AM:_ ** _so I just got a call from Hannibal :)))_

 **_12:23 AM:_ ** _is2g if you didn’t just get laid I will send him right back_

 **_12:25 AM:_ ** _nice. call me tomorrow ;) sleep tight_

 

He could still hang himself with that scarf.

One from Hannibal.

 

 **_1:42 AM:_ ** _I fed Winston, so I doubt he will maul you in your sleep. Do let me know, regardless, if you survived the night. I hope you are feeling well. Take care._

 

Will curls back up in his bed, dragging the scarf in to string around and through his fingers. It’s delicate. He dips his head and inhales the scent attached to the fabric, committing it to memory. All this, the growing suspicions, being cornered by Abel, and his uncovered feelings for Hannibal. It can wait, just for a little. It has to.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Will skips class the following Monday with the excuse that he feels a bit “under the weather.” It isn’t a complete lie; his stomach is thoroughly fucked (still), and his unchecked emotions are even more fucked. Most of the day he spends in bed, only getting up to walk the dog for brief periods of time that are no doubt disheartening to poor Winston, who settles for napping beside Will while the television plays one bad flick after another until sundown. It reminds him of Matt, who suggested half of these films, most of them being utter shit and unwatchable.

_“Check in with Matthew, will you? He wonders about you these days.”_

The memory of Abel Gideon’s voice sends a chill down his spine, and even as it does, curiosity gets the better of him and he follows the advice. For once, he is the first to contact Matt (because of course Matt is online, he is _always_ online).

 

 **sadmutt** : hey

 

The response is (shockingly!) immediate. 

 

 **the_slayer** : where you been

 **sadmutt** : sorry about that  
**sadmutt** : i've just been busy, haven't been online lately. 

 

It takes a suspiciously long time to get such a short reply. 

 

 **the_slayer** : lol

 

 _Is he honestly mad at me?_   Will doesn't say anything else, blaming it on paranoia. What if he's just busy? After all,  _not everyone is a loser like you, Graham._ Then again, this is Matt, who is online 24/7, rain or shine.

 

 **the_slayer** : abel says you've met

 

He doesn't like how this is going already. 

 

 **sadmutt** : unfortunately, yes

 **the_slayer** : why unfortunate?  
**the_slayer** : he's very interested in you

 **sadmutt** : that seems to be the consensus around here

 **the_slayer** : you should start watching who you talk to

 **sadmutt** : what exactly is that supposed to mean?

 **the_slayer** : it’s a warning  
**the_slayer** : not a threat  
**the_slayer** : he's a creep, ok?  
**the_slayer** : i was wrong. i shouldn't have got you involved with them

 **sadmutt** : honestly it’s my fault too  
**sadmutt** : but what do you mean? involved in what?

 **the_slayer** : their shit, idk  
**the_slayer** : something's wrong  
**the_slayer** : he never comes to me and now he harasses me all the time  
**the_slayer** : talking all this shit

 **sadmutt** : what shit?

 **the_slayer** : idk  
**the_slayer** : he teases me with shit and doesn't make sense because he knows it pisses me off when he plays these little games  
**the_slayer** : i think he really dislikes you, man  
**the_slayer** : he wants me to hate you or something  
**the_slayer** : who is hannibal?

 

It would be wise to shut down the computer, and never speak to any of them again, but...

It wouldn't help, it’s too late. A sense of loyalty washes over him. Hannibal's anonymity is just as sacred as Will's, and Abel Gideon is crossing lines. What for? To incite jealousy? How come? None of this has made a lick of sense from the start.

He decides to play it off.

 

 **sadmutt** : i'm lost

 **the_slayer** : well, golly gosh! me too  
**the_slayer** : by the way  
**the_slayer** : don't freak but you should know  
**the_slayer** : he even gave me your home address, pretty much out of nowhere

 

Will doesn't feel so good. 

His mouth parts just slightly and his breathing becomes erratic, and he's whipped up into a panic over the very thought of a bunch of possible (probable?) psychos knowing exactly where he lives.

 

 **sadmutt** : why  
**sadmutt** : this is fucked up how the fuck and why  
**sadmutt** : he's fucking crazy

 **the_slayer** : chill

 **sadmutt** : i can't chill he knows where i live and he's passing it out to strangers online

 **the_slayer** : ill try not to take that personal lol  
**the_slayer** : but maybe he was lying

 **sadmutt** : what reason has he got for lying?

 **the_slayer** : idk   
**the_slayer** : what reason has he got for telling me where you live  
**the_slayer** : he's crazier than i thought he was  
**the_slayer** : i've never seen him act this way  
**the_slayer** : maybe he's on drugs  
**the_slayer** : hell I don’t know

 

Will isn't paying attention, leaping out of the bed and pulling on the first set of clothes within arm's reach before he has even reached a decision. Winston is startled awake while Will walks from room to room, throwing essentials into a worn messenger bag.

He abruptly pauses in the middle of this frenzy, as if shaken, and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. Doe-eyed, sleep deprived as it is, fearful with wild dark hair sticking out in all directions. Toothbrush in one hand, tube of toothpaste in the other. What is he even going to do? Run away? He can’t afford a hotel.

 _Oh, no, I am not staying with Beverly._  He hasn’t even answered her messages from two nights ago. Today is not the day; he cannot handle that amount of high energy right now.

_How long has he known where I lived and how? Did he tell Matt recently? Is he watching me now?_

No. This is an overreaction, plain and simple. No one is coming, no one is going to bust open the door of his apartment and murder him in his sleep. Abel Gideon is a sick fuck who wants him to be this unsettled, because he gets off on it.

All the same, his fingers grasp hard around the phone and he dials the one person he can stand to talk to right now. As much as his embarrassment wills him to suffer in silence, he cannot do it under this much stress, not all alone.

“Hello?” an accented voice murmurs into his ear, much thicker now, laced with the hint of sleep.

Will checks the time and curses himself.

It’s half past twelve in the fucking morning.

“I’m fucking sorry,” he splutters right away and begins to pace, bumping hard into a bookshelf. “Ow, fuck. Shit. I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking at the clock. Sorry.” His lungs are screaming for more air.

“You sound frantic, Will.” Rustling sheets, someone sitting up in bed. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. No!” He runs a hand through his unruly curls, which does nothing to soothe his nerves when it’s his own fingers doing it. What a sad thing to be thinking about at a time like this. “I’m not okay. Your friend is a fucking creep.”

“You must elaborate, I’m afraid. Calm down, and tell me what has happened.”

“Abel Gideon knows where I live.”

A heavy silence that could translate to absolutely anything.  _You’re crazy, Will. I doubt that, Will. Go to bed, Will. Leave me alone, Will. Fuck off, Will._ Or worse, he could hang up on him.

Of all the things he could fucking say, Hannibal replies with a tentative, “Abel Gideon is not my friend.”

This manages to make Will even more upset than he would have been with any of the responses he made up in his head.

“He knows where I live!” he repeats helplessly, throwing out an arm and gesturing to the apartment itself. Winston peers around in search of whatever it is Will might be pointing at.   

“Right, my apologies. I am still asleep.” Hannibal sounds mildly embarrassed, or as embarrassed as such a composed man  _can_ sound. “That he knows where you live is deeply unnerving, yes. I must agree that he is a ‘fucking creep.’”

As surprisingly pleasant as it is to hear him say “fucking,” Will is just relieved to have finally gotten to the point. “Yes! He told Matt, too. He’s going around telling people where I live. On a website like that, Hannibal!”

“Unfortunate, and uncalled for,” comes the dry response, and then nothing.

Will realizes Hannibal is waiting for him to state his reason for calling.

Will doesn’t know why.  _I’m such an asshole._

“You don’t feel secure,” Hannibal says after a time, while Will struggles with forming a coherent thought. “I assure you, Will, Abel Gideon has no intention to harm you. He is ill, and rude, and perhaps toying with you, but you are safe where you are right now.”

“I’m having a hard time believing that,” Will mumbles into the phone, tossing a look at his hastily packed bag. “I won’t be able to sleep here as it is, not until I’m away and can calm down.” Neither of them say anything else for a handful of seconds. He wonders if Hannibal is taking the time to roll his eyes, but he can’t quite conjure up the image. Too normal. “I’m sorry, Hannibal.”

“I’m not. I would rather you call me now than stay up worrying about it all night. Shall I pick you up?”

 _And go where, exactly? I don’t even know where you live. I might as well write up my death certificate now, I seem to be determined to get myself killed._ Will knows he should say no, the same way he knew deep down he should have never picked up the phone, never gave him his number, asked him to take him home… Oh, God. They haven’t even breached that subject yet. Please not tonight. 

“Yes,” he croaks despite it all, and clears his throat before continuing with, “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.” Of course it fucking is.

“It isn’t.”

Will allows himself to sit on the edge of the bed, nearly jumping out of his skin when Winston noses at one of his hands. Right. “Winston…I’d rather not leave him if I’m going.”

This time he does hear Hannibal smother out the beginnings of a groan. It cuts short with a disciplined intake of breath. “Winston is welcome to ride along in the vehicle if he minds his manners.”

Will inadvertently flinches at the sound of a car alarm going off in the distance. “He’ll be on his best behavior, I swear. I just need to get out of here for a while. I’ll make it up to you somehow.” How? “But I guess any average person would have just hung up on me, so you did sort of do this to yourself.”

“You are my friend, Will.”

“Beverly would have told me to go fuck myself. I wouldn’t have even bothered calling Jimmy or Brian.”

“Mmm. I will be there in a little less than an hour, if you can bear it.”

“Thank you.” 

The call ends before he can run his mouth any longer.

Will zips up his bag, not sure if he needs it, or what it might look like if he came out wearing it over his shoulder. Inviting himself like he has is already pathetic. He isn’t going to spend the night somewhere. Maybe all he needs is some time driving around, hanging out in a 24-hour diner, and he’ll tire himself out and want to go home.

If that were true he could have just walked.

He decides to leave the bag where it is, but he does pick up the abandoned red scarf on his nightstand. For lack of anything to do with it that won’t crumple it (and the last thing he wants to do is hand it over in bad condition) he wraps it around his own throat and immediately regrets it. The delicious scent still clinging to it wafts up into his nose and sticks, some sort of mixture between expensive, synthetic masculinity and a natural sweetness.

It’s also ridiculously comfortable. Giving it back will be disappointing.

 

* * *

 

 

Will almost calls him several times to let him know he has changed his mind and will be sleeping, right away, no need to come rescue him from the jaws of danger. However, he never does manage to dial the number again, as he is much too busy checking and re-checking his current outfit in the mirror, hoping to all hell he doesn’t smell too much like Winston, and then he starts worrying about the scarf now being covered in dog hair. A quick investigation shows his fears to be true.

He doesn’t answer the call when it comes, just peeks out the window to reassure himself, and clips the leash to Winston’s harness. Winston leads the way out the door, the tags on his collar jingling with his inability to contain the excitement after being inside all day. Will shivers and blames it on the sting of the wind. It certainly isn’t his own nervous enthusiasm.  

Will opens the passenger side door and awkwardly motions to the backseat, asking permission to put Winston back there. _Where else?_  screams the nonplussed look it earns him. Ducking his head, he manages to get the dog in the car (on the towels that have apparently been laid out just for Winston) and climbs into the front seat himself afterward.

It all hits him at once. The freshly showered smell, the irritatingly permanent scent of “new car,” the situation in general. Hannibal radiates warmth (he took his time to clean and preen) and looks somewhat tired, but he offers a welcoming smile. Will wants to smooth over an endearing stray tuft of hair that won’t lie flat, but he keeps his hands in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he says, incredibly uncomfortable and hyper aware of their proximity. He adjusts as the car begins to move, and eyes are no longer focusing entirely on him.

“You’re wearing it.”

The stupid scarf. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“You have to stop apologizing, Will. Especially when you have no reason to."

 _Sorry!_  “Yeah, I’ll work on that.”

Hannibal briefly glances over, already looking away when Will turns his head. “You should keep it. It suits you.”

Will would have to disagree, once again finding himself drawn to the dried blood color of Hannibal’s eyes, but he doesn’t say so. Fingers tangling in the fabric of the scarf, he can’t help but be reminded of his behavior the last time they met. Granted, it’s very blurry, but he recalls the gist of it.

“Keep your nose off the window, Winston,” he says quickly, ignoring the fact that Winston is nowhere near it and is behaving like an angel. “Where are we going?”

“I suppose my residence,” Hannibal replies with some hesitation, somehow knowing to tread carefully because Will instantly panics. Before he can say anything, Hannibal adds, “I promise not to murder you or otherwise do anything unpleasant.”

“Well, since you promised,” Will says with an exaggerated shrug and a weird laugh, feeling like he might start hyperventilating. He has to fucking calm down.

“Shame. I do have a basement that would work perfectly as a torture chamber.”

“Some other time.” Will cracks a grin, biting at the inside of his lips to force it away. It returns as soon as he realizes the music playing on the stereo, awfully low, is some sort of orchestra. “I don’t know why I expected anything different,” he comments, daring to lean forward and figure out what the excessive number of dials and buttons do.

“You hold me in contempt for my class.”

“Oh! Class, is it?” Will ventures, slowly adjusting to the newness of all this. Late as it is, the traffic is still generous and the city is well-lit. It doesn’t feel as lonely as a typical night in his apartment. He stops fiddling with the controls after a while, landing on a station with a familiar tune. He leans back in the seat, dropping his arms to his sides and angling his head toward Hannibal. “Tell me you don’t indulge in this every now and then.”  

“Never, I’m afraid.” Slight irritation, but it melts off him nearly the second it appears. Will is astonished at just how fluid he can be. It’s one more thing on a long list.

 _You told me, I see you rise_ _  
But, it always falls_

“You must be lying. There isn’t a single person that doesn’t know this song.”

“I don’t lie.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

 _I see you come, I see you go_ _  
You say, "All things pass into the night"_

“I imagine you would be an excellent judge of that.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Did I?”

“I think you did.”

“I must have, then.”

 _And I say, "Oh no sir I must say you're wrong_  
_I must disagree, oh no sir, I must say you're wrong"_  
_Won't you listen to me_

“I have Winston as my witness.”

“Winston is biased.”

He savors this moment in time. The refreshing lack of negativity, the easy connection, the way his heart races, and not just in fear.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal Lecter’s house (because _of course_ he has a house, and _of course_ it is enormous) makes Will Graham feel very, very small. It takes all his strength to make his legs work, and follow Hannibal up to the doorstep. He quite nearly walks straight into his back, with his eyes so busy taking in the exterior. He fights himself on whether to laugh or gape at the interior; as equally sophisticated as the outside, littered with paintings and woodcuts and recreated sculpture and little things scattered here and there that make him seriously wonder about the person he is with (proudly displayed bones, for one, impossibly old antiques for another). He keeps Winston close, terrified now that one of them will almost certainly break something tonight.

Led next into the kitchen, he is even more fascinated by the excess of space and obvious expense put into stocking and decorating it. “You live here alone?” he wonders out loud. Winston’s claws click against the tile.

“Yes. I inherited a large sum of money among other things.” No room for any more awestruck questions. _Orphaned?_  Will ponders. Not unlike himself. The difference being…well, almost everything else.

Hannibal has removed his coat, and Will is struck by how lean he looks without it, even with the hint of toned muscles under the thin layer of his shirt. Will sticks his hands in his pockets, huddling down in the warmth of the scarf in the hopes that he might be able to hide in his own clothes.

“Coffee or tea?”

He almost says _What?_  but manages to swallow it down in time. “Coffee,” he says, because he isn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon regardless of his caffeine intake.

Thank God Hannibal has a coffee maker, even if it does look like it costs an arm and a leg. How Will has come to find such a ridiculously wealthy, yet kind friend is beyond him.

Will steps toward the stainless-steel kitchen island, smoothing a finger over the surface.

_I should not be here. I should have gone to bed. I should at least ask what in the hell is going on. Can I make myself at least do that? Or am I that incapable?_

Hannibal appears soundlessly at his side. Will is temporarily spooked, lifting his head to note the steaming mug held out in front of him.

“We still haven’t addressed the elephant in the room,” he mutters, reaching out to receive the coffee, and has a small heart attack when his fingers clumsily overlap Hannibal’s.

“Which one?”

Will represses the urge to back away. Perhaps he would have shown more restraint if he _had_ taken a step back. He can feel warmth surrounding him, too close and intense, touching him beyond all the layers he has so carefully piled on. Mentally and physically. He doesn’t move and Hannibal doesn’t pull his hand away, patiently waiting for Will to finally look up.

It could have meant absolutely nothing.

Will knows he is just prolonging the inevitable. He focuses his blue eyes on the red irises in front of him, taking in his companion while his companion does the same to him. Up this close, every single detail is up for scrutiny, enhanced more so by his glasses. _Why am I so drawn? What is it about you? Is it what you see in me?_

It’s too pregnant a pause for it to mean nothing, now.

“Are there two?”

“Certainly more than one.”

“I only see a dog,” Will says.

“I see much more than that.”

“I think you wanted me to ask you something, last time I saw you.”

“Did I?”

“I’m asking you now.”

One corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches upward in gentle amusement, just barely perceptible. Will submits entirely when those lips seek out his own.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Hannibal’s mouth tastes of a strange mint, and it occurs to Will that he has never kissed someone who had a specific flavor. The kiss is unbearably soft, innocently investigative, just barely testing boundaries. It gives him an electric shock, a bolt of excitement surging up from his stomach and all the way into his throat. His fingers shake and the mug in his hand slips, shattering on the floor between them. Warm coffee splatters against the legs of his pants.

Hannibal clearly doesn’t mind. He makes no move to do anything about it. Will trembles all over like a caged wild animal as a hand cups his cheek, holding him in place to lengthen the kiss. Will only breaks away to catch his breath, and then he tips his head forward to continue. He’s drowning in him, taking in his taste and his familiar smell. It’s so good.

_I feel hypnotized._

Winston gives a confused whimper at his feet. Will shuts his eyes, savors the touch on his skin, and reaches out to grasp at the front of Hannibal’s shirt. If the gesture displeases him, he punishes Will with a tongue prying past his lips and into his open mouth. Will suddenly groans at the unexpected (and not at all unwelcome) sensation. 

At that, Winston lets out a fierce, single bark and Will flinches at the noise. His eyes shoot open. With numb lips and a flushed face, he breaks off the kiss. He misses it instantly. It will be impossible to forget the craving it stirred up in him. _I want._

At some point, Hannibal must have lowered his hands to hold either side of Will’s waist, but it’s less sensual and more about keeping Will balanced. He realizes he’s been swaying. They share breath, noses and foreheads still touching. This close, Will can’t see the look on Hannibal’s face, but his posture is relaxed and collected. Thumbs lightly brush over Will’s hips and he must bite back a gasp, lest Winston start losing his mind.

“He thinks you were hurting me,” Will offers up as an explanation. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the dog wagging his tail.

“I wasn’t.”

 _I_ _was doing quite the opposite_ , Will imagines he might be thinking. “No, not at all. I’m just.” Just. “Overwhelmed.”

“I understand.”

Still, neither of them attempt to part.

“I’ve never kissed a man,” Will confesses, finding that he’s feeling self-conscious.

“How do you feel about it?” Gentle probing, genuine curiosity.

“I liked it,” he whispers, dying to go for another round, to see how far this will go, but he’s afraid. The closeness he feels now is unlike any other connection he has ever had before. It’s unknown territory. Hannibal is unknown territory.

Regretfully, Will steps to the side and turns his face away. He needs time, and Hannibal will be more than generous in giving it if past behavior is an indicator of future behavior. Hands disappear from his waist without complaint. Now he’s struck by how cold he is without them. He steps on something that cracks under his shoe. Oh. “I feel bad about the mug,” he says, without meaning it.

“No need, Will.”

Will pretends to fuss over the dog while Hannibal crouches to pick up the pieces. Will bunches up Winston’s cheeks in his hands and looks him in the eyes, not sure whether to scorn or thank him.

 

* * *

 

 

Will is still confused by the time they migrate into the study, coffee in hand, filling up identical (unbroken) mugs. The fireplace is lit, emitting a low but enticing heat, and is almost the only light source in the whole room. The rest is thanks to a series of small lamps that cover everything in a golden glow, all the shadows exaggerated. There are more books than Will cares to count, but he makes a mental note to peek through the titles later. He might even ask to borrow one.

He joins Hannibal on a luxurious sofa, having the sense to keep Winston on a small leash and near to him, but off all furniture. Winston is exhausted and plops onto his side right away, heaving a loud sigh that makes Will smile.

“He is incredibly attached to you,” Hannibal comments. It’s a simple observation, no judgement behind it.

“Yeah. I’d say I’m attached to him too,” Will says, taking in a deep breath before looking over. Hannibal is already staring at him. He is always staring at him, with those mesmerizing maroon eyes. Will should be unsettled, but most of his discomfort stems from shyness. “You like to look at me.”

“I have a general appreciation for fine works of art.”

“Smooth,” Will says with a small laugh, and takes a sip of the warm coffee. God damn. It’s delicious.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, I take in as much information as possible wherever I am. At times, it comes off as being too forward. I might seem intimidating. But I do mean it; I find you beautiful.”

Will quite nearly chokes on his beverage. “Thank you,” he says, because what else can he say? _You too._

Hannibal is elegant, one leg draped artfully over the other, hands clasped gently around the mug that rests in his lap. His back is effortlessly straight, whereas Will naturally slumps forward and must make a conscious effort to mirror his companion’s posture. It’s almost infuriating. He seems downright princely. But as spoiled as this man might seem, he’s kind in his own way. Is that sad? _Are those my only standards? “Nice to me?”_

“Shall we talk about Abel?”

No, Will doesn’t want to do that, but the alternative is to discuss what happened in the kitchen. “Sure.”

“What do you want to know?”

Where to start? Will rubs absently at his face, removing his glasses to clean them off on his coat. When they smudge even worse, he stuffs them in a pocket. “I don’t know. What’s wrong with him?”

“Possibly a severe case of borderline personality disorder.”

“Possibly?”

“Not diagnosed, just an assumption.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a psychologist now?”

“I have many interests beyond anatomy and medicine. Is that so surprising? Or do you only take interest in veterinary practices, yourself?”

Will gives in to the temptation and rolls his eyes, relieved when this only seems to amuse Hannibal rather than antagonize him. Will looks down and fixes his gaze on the reflection in the coffee. Tired, disheveled, scruffy. Different from the, to put it lightly, pretty thing beside him. He licks his lips before asking another question. “Is he really harmless?”

This time, the reply is slow and seems to be too carefully constructed. It’s more than telling. “He is harmless in regards to you, Will. He is not going to touch you.”

“That doesn’t sound promising.”

“Consider it a promise.”

Will gulps on his coffee to avoid saying anything right away. “I’m still not convinced. Did I ever manage to tell you what he did in the bar?”

Hannibal hums a probable “no” and drinks, which Will figures is an invitation to continue.

“He cornered me in the bathroom. He said…Fuck,” Will sighs, and sets the mug aside. “I can’t remember all of it. He warned me about you, or at least I think so. It didn’t make any sense, it may have been to freak me out. He told me to “run.” No specifics. It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” Hannibal says after a moment. Will can see him scrunch up his nose, a small twitch, as though he has tasted something gross. It’s cute. It’s also a crack in the mask, a tell. “But Abel Gideon enjoys expressing dominance over others, and taking on different roles.”

“You said he isn’t your friend.”

“I don’t consider him one, no.”

“What is he?”

“A fellow student, and an annoyance.”

Will doesn’t believe it. “He sees something in you he likes, enough to keep you close. He sees me as a threat, or wants to protect me from the threat, which would be you in that case, and he still has no reason to do that for me.”

“Would you accept the theory that he is simply childish and jealous?”

Will shakes his head. It can’t be that simple. _Can you at least tell me how you met?_ he wants to ask, but his eyes are beginning to droop, even with the caffeine. In all honesty, he also doesn’t want to spend the rest of the night talking about Abel Gideon. He had thought it preferable to the other option, but apparently not. Not when he is here in Hannibal Lecter’s house, on Hannibal Lecter’s couch, and after having just kissed Hannibal Lecter. Because _that_ happened.

 _What exactly does that mean for me?_ He’d like to find out.

“There’s yet another elephant in the room,” he jokes, without humor.

“Pesky elephants.”

“You kissed me.”

“You asked me to.”

“Did you want to?”

“I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t wanted to.”

Fair enough. “How embarrassing was I, the other night?” It’s a blur, but he knows he acted a fool.

“Fairly,” Hannibal answers without mercy.

Will blows out a breath of air in indignation. He leans over to knock playfully against Hannibal’s shoulder with his own. Bad idea. He is caught by the scarf, Hannibal holding tight to one end. He leaves Will with no choice but to hover close.

“Stay.”

Will’s heart pounds against his chest until it almost physically hurts. He catches himself wetting his lips, lifting his cold blue eyes up to meet the fiery ones pinned so steadily on him. Two opposing, yet equal forces of nature. Will furrows his brow, dragging his gaze over every perfectly chiseled feature of the face in front of him. If anyone is a work of art, it isn’t Will.

And yet, the look in Hannibal’s eyes is one of adoration. But it’s…it’s different.

Will feels like he’s really _seeing_ him.  Beyond this, this _reverence_ , there is nothing else he can identify. Hannibal is hard to read, in every sense.

“Stay?” Will echoes faintly.

“Yes,” comes the answer, quiet and soft as silk.

Will sinks forward, coaxed by the warmth, the accent, the promise of those experienced lips on his, and he doesn’t have to wait long. This time he’s brave enough to seize the back of Hannibal’s neck and pull him further into the embrace. Hannibal reacts with so much controlled grace, it threatens to drive Will insane. His missed his mouth, the distinct flavor of it. Whatever happens with them in the future, he won’t forget it.

_No, don’t think about the future right now._

He clutches at dark brown hair, slightly startled by the fact that it’s so short. Will has only ever touched women, all of them typically long-haired. He takes his time to get used to the change. The newness is immensely exciting.

Hannibal is patient, as always, and even appears to cherish the attention paid to his head. He reminds Will of a pleased cat being stroked down the back. His kisses are delicate, not meant to overwhelm, only to encourage. He keeps his hands to himself, which Will is deeply grateful for, as much as a part of him wants those hands to explore his body. If he were a courageous man, he would try to instigate it, but this is all so different. He can’t make himself do it.

Will pauses, lips brushing over Hannibal’s, and takes a breath. “I don’t know what this is.”

“Whatever you wish it to be.”

“I feel like we’re always talking about several different things at the same time,” Will says, resting his head against Hannibal’s sharp cheek. “I feel there is a lot you aren’t telling me, and I still can’t make myself walk away.”

“You want to find out.”

“Yes,” he says, swallowing whatever response Hannibal has planned with another kiss. His reward comes in the form of pointed teeth cautiously biting down on his bottom lip, pulling and sucking at it until Will gasps. If he could just test the waters a little bit more…

Winston erupts into a series of barks, wide awake at Will’s feet. To Hannibal’s credit, he doesn’t withdraw, only gives a tiny sigh of resignation. Will’s face is a deep red, and he murmurs an apology that fades away once Hannibal shushes him with his mouth a last time.

“May I suggest you give some thought to visiting without Winston, sometime?” he asks, pulling away and leaving Will astonished, hungry for more. “Of course you don’t have to. It’s late, and we can discuss this later. Stay the night and rest, I’ll drive you to the campus in the morning. I insist," he adds, when Will opens his mouth to object.

Without much thought, Will just nods.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the quick update!

Sleeping in a bed that is not his own should be troubling. He shouldn’t fall asleep so easily, wrapped in silk sheets and hugging ridiculously enormous pillows, engulfed in the flowery scent all around him. In his dreams, he meets the black stag once again. It’s been a while.

It stands proudly across the rippling stream, and to Will’s delight, it creeps forward and wades through the water until it stands dripping in front of him. Warm breath flows out of its nostrils, blowing back Will’s curls. Will’s eyes are wide as he takes in the majestic dark feathering that dapples the stag’s body in lieu of fur.  The creature dips its head in offering, and Will lays a palm flat on its snout. He exhales at the feat, shivering. It has never allowed him to touch it before, let alone outright asked him to.

He cries out when it jerks forward, the endless tangle of antlers sinking through his flesh and impaling him. The stag lifts him off the ground and Will dangles helplessly, in shocked silence, while pools of blood gather underneath him. He is left to drain, bleed dry.  

He wakes up with a start, the set alarm going off on his phone much too close to his ear. His heart aches with the stag’s betrayal, real or not.

Once he’s calm, he pushes back the covers and stands on unsteady feet.

He enters the adjoining bathroom, relieved at the discovery that he can dim the lights to a more comfortable level. He slides out of the nightclothes somewhat reluctantly. They are borrowed, at Hannibal’s insistence, and just a bit too big. But they’re nice and he’ll miss them. Even if they are sticky with sweat now. How embarrassing.

He spends what feels like an eternity in the shower, just letting the water roll off his back while he considers the nightmare.

It’s stupid to be this offended at the stag’s reaction, when it isn’t even real. But it still hurts. The stag has been a constant, as Winston has, in the last few weeks. He’s grown attached to the very idea of it, often spending the length of his dreams sitting and observing its movements in mutual respect.

Coming out of the bathroom, he notes the appearance of his clothes, washed and dried and folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Winston is missing from the rug he’d been sleeping on, and the door is shut, so Will assumes he must be bothering Hannibal.

By some miracle, he finds his way back to the kitchen after dressing and tidying up the guest room (as best he can; it was all so meticulously in order when he arrived last night). Breakfast is either in the process of being made, or prepared already. Will hadn’t expected this level of courteousness and it really throws him off, but he should have seen it coming.

He invited a raving neurotic into his home to spend the night, he might as well make him breakfast.

Will pauses in the doorway. He catches sight of Hannibal at the sink, tall and sleek, clearly dressed for class. He’s probably been awake for hours. His head is angled toward Winston who stands a few feet away, tail swishing. Hannibal picks up what Will figures must be some leftover ingredients, a chunk of meat, and shows it to the dog.

Winston sits obediently, and quickly sticks out his neck to snap his jaws down around the treat as it’s thrown over his head.

Will didn’t teach him that.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal greets offhandedly, not at all looking in his direction.

He wanders over. “Do I really make that much noise?”

“No. I have an excellent sense of smell.”

“You _smelled_ me?”

“If you’re hungry, I’ve made breakfast.”

What did Will expect? A good morning kiss? Winston licks his lips and gives up his begging, moseying over to Will while panting contentedly. “Traitor,” Will says with a half-smile, and moves stand next to Hannibal rather than heading for the steaming plate of no doubt delicious gourmet breakfast laid out on the steel island. Some sort of egg scramble that makes his mouth water at just seeing it. “You’ve made peace with my dog, looks like.”

Hannibal washes off his hands and absently dries them with a dish rag, turning around to lean against the counter. Will copies him. “It would seem so,” he replies, finally lifting his maroon eyes to meet Will’s. For a moment, Will is haunted by the stark emptiness in them, but something kind fills the space quick enough for him to write it off as a trick of the light.

“You cook,” Will states thoughtfully.

“Often.”

“As an art,” he adds, noting the special attention paid to the overall aesthetic of the dish. _It’s just breakfast_ , Will wants to scoff, but he must admit he’s impressed.

“It’s something I enjoy immensely.”

“I’ll enjoy eating it. Immensely.”

“Don’t be rude, Will.”

Will beams, his upsetting dream almost entirely forgotten thanks to this flirtatious banter.   _May I taste you first?_ He observes Hannibal for a moment longer, taking in the relaxed demeanor, the way Hannibal examines him a hundred times more closely. He’s so relentless. Will watches his lips, probably staring, and shies away. He’ll eat, first.

It’s fucking delicious. Will makes a fool of himself, gushing over it and complimenting it, he knows, but damn. It’s good.

This appears to please Hannibal. _Immensely_ , Will thinks.

 

* * *

 

Winston is dropped off at the apartment, more than happy to leap into Will’s bed and smother himself all over the sheets now that he’s allowed to be on the furniture again. Will locks up and gets back in the car, gives Hannibal directions, and they’re on their way. It’s been a quiet ride, and that doesn’t change.

Shouldn’t they discuss what happened?

Hannibal is gracious enough to let Will have full control of the radio again, although this must certainly grate on his nerves. Will’s taste is…weird. Hannibal’s is so refined it’s unbelievable.

Only a single night has passed since Will was in this seat last. So much has happened, and yet nothing at all has changed.

It’s unsettling to be dropped off among the throng of students roaming around, although their numbers are small as it’s still incredibly early. There is something entirely _other_ about having Hannibal here, rather than arriving with Beverly as he usually does.

Beverly. Will closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. What fun that will be. He doesn’t get out of the vehicle.

“Are you all right, Will?”

Will glances over without turning his head. The sigh that slips out is unironic and entirely accidental. “I’m fine, just thinking up some sort of excuse for skipping yesterday.” Hannibal looks disapproving. “I didn’t feel well,” Will defends, sticking by it. “Look, I’m sorry I kept you up late, and that you had to come get me.”

“I’m not.”

It’s so easy for him. Will faces him with a well-meaning smile. “I would have been pissed, if it were me. Not that I wouldn’t have done it. I’d like to think I would.” Too much talking. Back off. Don’t sound stupid. “Thank you for it, and for letting me stay over, and…washing my clothes, and feeding my dog and I breakfast.” He can feel his face growing warm.

“It’s nothing at all,” Hannibal assures him, and when Will makes to leave, a hand snags the scarf that rests around his throat. The stupid fucking thing is a curse (or a blessing?) for them both. “Come here,” Hannibal says quietly, his softness from the night before starting to leak back in. Will is more than happy to lean forward.

“I want to see you again,” he finds himself saying.

“I would like to see you, too.”

“I expect better explanations about things in the future.”

“In time,” Hannibal says with a smile.

Under normal circumstances, if those actually exist, Will would panic before kissing him in public. Surprisingly, he could care less now. It’s fast, over too soon, but it holds the promise of more to come at later date. When he pulls away, he realizes one of his hands is grasping onto one of Hannibal’s. It’s unclear which of them instigated it. Will takes a minute to appreciate how they fit together so seamlessly.

_Made for it._

“I’m curious about exploring this further,” he mumbles.

“I would be more than happy to, but for now, I think you should get to class. Missing one day is more than enough to put you behind.”

They part eventually and he hates it. “See you?”

“Yes. Have a good day, Will.”

He steps out of the car and hesitates on shutting the door, but once he does he turns around and doesn’t risk looking back. All the same, he can’t wipe the smirk off his face. He buries his nose into the scarf to hide it from onlookers, slowly becoming aware that the rest of him must smell like Hannibal, too.

It provides some small comfort, especially when he runs smack into Beverly on his way to the lecture they will be attending together.

At once, he’s engulfed in a tight hug. Not quite what he expected. He tenses. “Bev?”

“I was worried about you!” she exclaims, lowering her tone when Will draws back in surprise. “You haven’t answered any of my texts, you total prick, besides telling me you were skipping Monday. Which you are going to feel sorry for, by the way. We had a test. I stopped by the apartment this morning to pick you up for class and it was obvious you weren’t there.”

“Sorry,” he offers, gritting his teeth together and preparing for another lashing, but she just shakes her head and pulls him down the hall.

She talks as they walk. “How’d you get here, then, and where have you been?” It’s accusory, a sly grin spreading over her face. “Was I right? Did _The_ Will Graham finally let loose and have an escapade? I knew it would be good for you.”

There isn’t much point in denying all of it, it will just make her all that much more determined. He lowers his eyes to the ground, staring at his shoes as they move to keep up with hers. “I hung out with him a little yesterday. We…” It’s so hard to admit, when he knows what her reaction will be. “Kissed.”

Thankfully, Beverly doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Honestly, she seems disappointed with the lack of juiciness in his alibi. “Really? Well, baby steps, Graham. Baby steps. Still, I’m impressed. He’s quite a catch.”

“Yes, I’m aware that he’s entirely out of my league,” Will says dryly, and a hand stops him.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” She’s sincerely apologetic, worrying over him now. She regrets saying anything at all.

He avoids looking her in the eyes. “Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. It’s all new to me.”

“It’ll be okay. Take your time with it.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it. He’ll understand.”

Of course he will, but Will is still feeling bitter about having to be here and not there. “How do you know? You don’t spend time with him.” At least, he seriously doubts it. Does she?

“Alana Bloom does, or did, and I spend a lot of time with Alana,” Beverly challenges. This new information doesn’t sit so well with him, and it must be clear in his face, because Beverly settles down a little. “Look, it doesn’t matter, but I think you should know that they were very recently together.”

He clears his throat. “Together?”

“They were a thing. For a bit.”

“Oh.” It doesn’t matter. “Yeah.”

“Like I said, it doesn’t matter. It was a mutual breakup, nothing nasty. I just thought you should know in case someone mentions it.”

“Yep.” Doesn’t matter.

_It means nothing, you’re still new to this whole group. Don’t be fucking insecure, it’s not attractive. You only kissed. It’s not like that requires reciting a detailed list of all your fuck buddies. You probably won’t even last. Who says it’s even serious?_

Yeah, this is sad.

“Come on, Will,” Beverly sighs, and Will feels guilty because she feels guilty. “I think I can see the Terrible Two waving at us. Let’s go see if you can make up the exam.”

Jimmy and Brian lighten up the mood with their antics to a degree, but his thoughts keep floating away elsewhere. He doesn’t like that Hannibal has become the center of his attention, so easily, and strong enough to keep him from even caring about the missed assignment.

 

* * *

 

Will comes home to Winston chewing on one of his few extra pairs of shoes. It makes him anxious, mostly because Winston doesn’t normally act out. He must be confused, being dragged around all night long and this morning. Will apologizes and takes him for a long walk, hoping to tire him out and correct the bad behavior, intent on getting back to their usual schedule. It works on them both, Winston heading straight for his water dish when they return and Will falling flat onto the bed.

 _Make it through the rest of the week_ , he thinks with a heavy sigh, sinking deep into the mattress. It’s not even halfway over, and he isn’t sure what he wants it to be over for in the first place. Even though he works the rest of the week after today, as well as having to go to class, it’s not like he ever has plans. If he does, it’s always with Beverly.

 _Could make some._ But can he? He takes his glasses off.

It’s still early evening. He could get online. He left Matt hanging yesterday. As he thinks about it, he’s back to feeling paranoid over Abel Gideon. Considerably less, but still paranoid. He doesn’t get up or reach for the laptop, though, and he doesn’t have the patience for another shitty rented film. Speaking of, he needs to return those to the store soon.

Maybe later.

Leaving himself with nothing else to do, he pulls the phone out of his pocket and stares at the screen. Flicks through his messages. All old, no new ones. He hesitates over starting a new conversation, deliberating, and ultimately sends a text to Hannibal.

_“If this is stupid, tell me. I want this, us, to be a thing.”_

He lies back, resting the phone on his chest, and he doesn’t have time to even close his eyes before the reply comes.

_“I am extremely interested in being exclusive with you, Will, if you will allow me.”_

Well, that settles it. He pushes away the childish excitement that overtakes him. The sweet relief.

_“I’d like that a lot I think.”_

He runs his hands through his hair, rolling over onto his side. Maybe he can push it a little. He sends another.

_“Can I see you this weekend?”_

_“Of course.”_

He isn’t sure what he wants to do once they’re together, exactly, but he has a few days to figure it out.

He sets the phone aside and lets his mind wander, eventually going places he should be ashamed to go, but his imagination is too wild to ignore. He bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, but his hand still disappears inside his pants and there’s really no going back after that.

He settles on a particularly pleasant possibility and enjoys himself.

 

* * *

 

“You will leave Will Graham alone.”

“Oh, will I do that?”

“You most certainly will.”

“Are you going to make me?”

“If you force my hand, I won’t mind doing so.”

“I understand the whole lost, stray puppy thing, I really do, it’s rather cute, but you can’t possibly fall for it. That isn’t _you_. He’s just a new toy, isn’t he? Wind him up and watch him go. Oh, come on, don’t walk away. It’s a joke.”

“Let go of me, if you would, please.”

“Are you bored of me? Is that it? I’m so easily replaced, I’m almost offended. Not really, but you know. It's almost irritating.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh, I’m not jealous. I rather like you poking around in my brain and all, but poor Will Graham isn’t going to be able to withstand it. How fragile he is. Is that why you want him? Fine, fine. I’ll see you later? Have a pleasant evening, then. Jerk.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

The stag is missing for the remainder of the week. Will sits and waits, ever hopeful, dipping his toes in the stream each night until he wakes with cold feet and blankets kicked to the side, slipping off the bed. He stays disappointed. After being gored a few nights before, he is always alone in that forest, aside from Winston who sometimes appears and tries to chase the fish, maw snapping at the water and always coming up empty. Sometimes, Will has a fishing pole and makes his own attempt at hunting the phantom fish. He never catches anything, and neither does Winston.

Classes go by slowly, and work goes even slower. He finishes learning what all the products are and where they go, memorizing it to recite robotically whenever a stray customer has a question or a teenage coworker forgets. As expected, he doesn’t bond with any of his coworkers, not yet, and the few idiots that wander in make him want to quit on the spot. Unfortunately, he can’t quite afford to do that, as much as he wants to. He complains about this one evening, phone pressed against his ear while he lies in bed and browses on his shitty computer.

“It’s so tedious. I hate it. Don’t you work?”

“On occasion. I spend most of my time focusing on my studies.”

“I would love only worrying about my grades,” Will grumbles, making a Google search for  _Why does my dog lick my feet?_ “You’re fortunate.”

The other end is quiet for just a second too long, if Will isn’t imagining it. He corrects himself as soon as he can; there is still so little he knows about Hannibal. He lives in an enormous house, all alone, he has no immediate family (that Will is aware of), and his relationship with his “friends” appears to be…distant, to put it bluntly.

Will would say he might be lonely, but that descriptor doesn’t suit Hannibal. He carries himself too well.

“I’m just stressed,” Will says at last.

“You are usually stressed, it seems.”

“Well. Yeah, I guess so. Good observation.”

“Thank you.” Deadpan. It could be just as sarcastic as Will’s quip, and he would never know. He smiles at it, despite himself, and listens. “Has it always been that way?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

A quiet, thoughtful hum shoots back at him. “What do you usually find lowers your stress level?”

If it were anyone else, Will would feel offended at being so obviously analyzed, but because this is Hannibal, he just shrugs it off and picks dog hair off his shirt. The results of his Google search are useless. “Walking. Preferably in a nature setting, not in the city limits. Too many noises and people. Being alone.” He thinks. “Caring for animals. Doing any sort of routine, really. What about you? You get stressed. Or are you so perfect?”

“I’m still human, if that is what you are asking.”

“And?”

“Cooking, I suppose.”

“Cooking stresses me out,” Will comments, chewing absently on the inside of his cheek. He scrolls past several unrelated webpages.

“I also enjoy sketching.”

“Can’t draw to save my life.”

“I know.”

Will sits up a little straighter. “What?”

“The dog.”

Oh. Will wrinkles his nose. That horrible, terrible sketch of the stick figure dog. The one he made and used as a profile picture. He’d entirely forgotten. “Yeah, that was mine. I have serious skills, don’t know what you’re on about.”

“I found it somewhat charming.”

Will laughs. “I could fall on my ass and you would still find it charming.”

“Probably.”

He blanches, although he might as well have set himself up for that one. He leans his head back against a pillow and sighs, waiting until his nerves have settled before he says anything else. Nothing interrupts his silence. “What are you doing?”

“Studying.”

“Okay, what do you do when you aren’t studying?”

“Aside from what I’ve already mentioned, I like to read.”

“About?”

“Almost anything.”

“In particular, then.”

“Classics.”

“ _Hannibal._  Has anyone ever told you that you can be kind of difficult?”

“Yes.”

“Well. You’re being difficult.”

“Thank you, Will.”

The conversations that they have continue in this manner, playful and inquiring. Hannibal is as curious as Will is, if not more so. It becomes a routine to call for at least an hour each evening, an unspoken promise that at times goes on into the late hours. If this is unusual behavior, neither of them mention it. It feels natural to Will. Alarmingly so. They often talk nonsense, or share opinions on whatever obscure thing he can think of, in fruitless attempts to catch Hannibal off his game. When nothing works, Will talks about his past. Hannibal does not. Will has to pry it out of Hannibal like he is pulling teeth, and even then, he discovers very little. He quickly learns to stop asking.

It’s finally the start of the weekend when Will comes home in a hurry to shower and change clothes, even though they haven’t set any sure plans or discussed meeting again. He strangely feels no anxiety over this. He knows they will, so he doesn’t worry about it. Until Hannibal is late responding to Will’s daily greeting. He takes Winston for a walk, and receives no messages or calls during it. Or after.

Will gets online while he waits, for lack of anything else to do and in need of distraction, and finds that he’s missed several messages in his absence since Monday night.

 

 **the_slayer** : where did you go?  
**the_slayer** : this whole thing is freaking me out  
**the_slayer** : he didn't get to you did he  
**the_slayer** : well apparently not  
**the_slayer** : he's bothering me again  
**the_slayer** : kind of shitty to up and disappear yknow  
**the_slayer** : i'm being harassed daily over your ass  
**the_slayer** : whatever  
**the_slayer** : i shoudl block him  
**the_slayer** : but im not a pussy ass bitch   
**the_slayer** : wheeeeeeeeeeeere aaaaaaaare youuuuuuuuuu  
**the_slayer** : i know who rakshasa is  
**the_slayer** : so that's it?  
**the_slayer** : you up and join the creepy crew and ditch me?  
**the_slayer** : lame  
**the_slayer** : you do you i guess  
**the_slayer** : look i don't know what your beef is w/ him but work it out and tell him to fuck off

 

Now, 

 

 **the_slayer** : look who's here  
**the_slayer** : long time no see in all seriousness

 **sadmutt** : what's going on?

 **the_slayer** : i thought you would know, i don't

 **sadmutt** : i don't talk to abel, ok? i don't know. i try to avoid him because he's creeping me out too  
**sadmutt** : supposedly he's harmless. he just likes to see us squirm

 **the_slayer** : whatever  
**the_slayer** : sorry for the spam  
**the_slayer** : dude makes me anxious

 **sadmutt** : why not just go offline for a while?

 **the_slayer** : pff  
**the_slayer** : i know its sad but this shit is my life. i got other people i talk to

 **sadmutt** : well, whatever, don't worry about it

 **the_slayer** : soooo how have you been

 **sadmutt** : focusing on school and trying not to be a complete loser, i guess

 **the_slayer** : dont b too hard on yourself

 

It isn't his place, he's the last person to take this position; but he feels sorry for Matt. He sticks around for the better part of an hour, participating in brainless banter that feels easy and nice. Aside from the weird vibes he’s getting from reading over the missed messages, it’s relatively normal.

But he’s more than happy to give a polite goodbye and close the laptop when his phone rings.

“Hello?” He can’t keep the excitement out of his voice and it makes his throat go dry.

“Good evening, Will. How do you feel about allowing me to cook dinner for you?”

 

* * *

 

He takes a cab, after apologizing profusely to Winston, who likely has no worries about Will being gone anyway. All the same, he explains to his dog that he wants him to get back into a strict routine, after the shoe-chewing incident earlier this week. It will be good for Winston, and he will thank Will for it. He won’t admit it, but he’s also looking to avoid interruption should something promising take place once he’s arrived.

Dinner is as delicious as he might have expected, and a million times more intimidating. Next time he should bring a paper bag full of greasy burgers, just to see the reaction. He makes a mental note to try it someday. Hannibal’s hard work seriously pays off, though; Will has never tasted anything so bizarrely…foreign, but good. The name of the dish slips out of his mind as soon as it is given to him, because the only other language he knows aside from English is broken Cajun French. He decides he’ll just pay more attention next time, and hopes he doesn’t have to mention the dish tonight for any reason. His pronunciation is going to be catastrophic.

After eating until he could practically burst, Will helps in the kitchen, washing dishes and drawling on and on about Brian and Jimmy’s hazardous friendship and how irritating but well-meaning they are. He can’t remember how he got on the subject, but Hannibal is listening with a gentle smile, and that’s more than enough to encourage him to keep talking.

Eventually, they wind up in the study once more, which does make him anxious. It’s intimate.

Will runs his fingers along the spines of books, row after row, until he lands on one that could possibly interest him. He flips through the pages, the type so small he must squint, even with his glasses. It hits him a little late. It’s not in English.

“You are more than welcome to borrow what you like,” Hannibal says from the sofa, tilting a full wine glass toward his lips while scribbling something down on top of a large open book in his lap. For classes, Will guesses. The small peek he gets at a diagram of some sort of organ proves his assumption correct. “However-“

“There are a lot of foreign works in here,” Will finishes for him, carefully tucking the book back in its place. “I’m no expert, but it looked like Italian. I thought you were Lithuanian.” He crosses his fingers and hopes this isn’t somehow offensive because he’s an uneducated, scruffy American.

“I spent a great deal of time in Florence when I was younger.”

“You’re still young.”

“Not for just starting medical school.”

“I think it’s nice that you traveled first.”

“Hmm.”

“Unless it wasn’t?” Will probes, wandering near to sit next to him, taking up his own wine glass. He’s forced to mirror the way Hannibal does it, and hope for the best. Uncultured slob, is all he can think of himself. Certainly the sentiment has crossed Hannibal’s mind as well? It’s a miracle he survived dinner.

It’s definitely an acquired taste, the wine. He sets it back down on the small table in front of the couch, and turns his body more toward his companion. Hannibal appears to be lost in thought. On an impulse, Will tries to ground him by laying a hand on his knee, doing it before he can think twice. When Hannibal slowly tears his gaze away from, well, whatever he was seeing, Will realizes he’s completely aloof. He didn’t go anywhere.

“It was,” Hannibal decides at last, considering things that Will wishes he knew, if he would just confide in him. “It was interesting.”  

Will pulls away, aware of the deepening blush in his face. “I’ve never traveled. We never had the money.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“I didn’t really know what I was missing.” Will shrugs. “I guess I still don’t. Don’t get me wrong, my childhood was fine. I wasn’t an unhappy kid. My dad tried, the best he could.”

“And your mother?”

“Died the day I was born.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Like I said, I didn’t know what I was missing.” Will sinks against the fluffy cushions, his back seeming to lose all its tension at the touch. He realizes he’s picked up the wine glass again at some point and has been taking generous sips. Surely he can’t get drunk on wine. It would have to be a very good wine. He realizes with an inward groan that it is most definitely good wine; this is Hannibal. “Not really, anyway.”

“No siblings.”

“No, just me and my dad.”

“Weren’t you ever lonely?”

“I was, I just never realized it until I grew up and knew what loneliness was. It’s hard to differentiate the good from the bad if all you’ve ever known is the bad. Technically speaking, that is. I wasn’t abused. Neglected, maybe, a little. Not intentionally. Did you drug this? I don’t usually talk so much. No, I’m sorry. I’ve been talking since I got here, haven’t I?”

“No drugs, I promise you.”

“Well.” Will stares down at the now empty glass. He’s had a few, since his arrival, between dinner and now. That should explain the chattiness. But it feels like more than that. He’s just as chatty on their phone calls. He places it back on the table, and looks at Hannibal after taking a deep breath.

“Yes?” Hannibal asks without sparing him a single glance. Writing away. Dark hair falls over his eyes, short yet easily unruly, as Will has discovered since the last visit. He briefly imagines messing it up on purpose. It was nice, seeing him somewhat unraveled, when he is otherwise so...picture perfect.

Will doesn’t answer, just watches him until he stops writing. Hannibal eventually switches his attention from the textbook to Will, turning his head with a relaxed but questioning gaze. Will leans over to carefully fold the textbook closed, using the notes as a bookmark, and moves it out of the way. He does the same for Hannibal’s now half-full wine glass. “It’s the weekend,” he decides to use as an excuse.

“You would have me procrastinate until Sunday night, as you do, I imagine.” Hannibal actually blows out his breath to stifle what might be a laugh, however small it is.  

“Yes.” Will shies away from eye contact, but stretches out on the sofa in a moment of bravado and promptly places his head in Hannibal’s lap. He’s holding his breath, counting the seconds, until fingers tangle in his curls and begin stroking. His shoulders and neck relax and he leans into the touch. In all honesty, he’s been imagining trying this all week, among other things.

This is good. “I’ve never felt okay with being vulnerable in front of someone.”

“You don’t appear vulnerable to me.” A hand lightly rubs against his back, stopping every now and then to press against tender areas. It's assessing him. It feels great.

“How do I seem, then?” he mumbles, trying to keep the satisfaction out of his tone.

“It’s not vulnerable for you to take what you want.”

Will thinks this over and reaches for the hand on his head, bringing it to his face. He presses his lips against the palm, not quite kissing it, and inhales. “You smell very good.”

“Would you believe me if I said you did as well?”

“Nope.”

The hand slips out of Will’s grasp and trails lightly over his mouth instead, then his cheek, and his throat. It just barely touches him, brushing over skin and leaving it disturbed and eager for an actual caress. “You do.”

“Dog hair and all?” he manages to ask, glancing up quick enough to catch the very telling twitch in Hannibal’s face that he’s fast becoming fond of.

“More troublesome is your choice in aftershave. But your natural scent is what I was referring to.”

“The dog smell is growing on you. Admit it.”

“It is not.” A finger taps his nose.

Speaking of dogs. “I didn’t bring Winston this time,” he starts carefully, heart thudding hard against his chest.

“You were welcome to. Did you want to bring him?”

“…No.”

How it happens is a mystery. Will finds himself sitting up to kiss Hannibal, and instead, he crawls into his lap. He faces him, still afraid to meet his eyes, but aware of the curious incline of his head.

Will bunches up the front of Hannibal’s sweater, taking his time to settle in this new position. He never would have imagined himself like this, and yet here he is, and he’s fascinated. He loves the feel of strong thighs beneath him, not at all those soft things belonging to a woman, the flat chest under his hands, hardened with well-earned muscle. It’s different.

He sits, though tentative, and does his best to control the trembling in his limbs as he attempts to get used to the idea. It’s surprisingly easy. The hands sliding around his waist are not at all distracting or unwanted, but helpful in accepting what this is. He gnaws on his bottom lip and lifts his head, and they lay eyes on each other.

Hannibal is almost feline, staring in such an intense way that Will feels compelled to look nowhere else but at him. He’s been charmed. Incredibly bright red flecks stand out in the maroon eyes that survey him, and they drag over every inch of Will’s face, agonizingly slow, taking in each blemish and pleasing curve. This level of admiration, in anyone else, is rare to come by. In him, it’s something Will has noticed a lot as of late.  

It’s overwhelming and it makes him feel important.

 _How can anyone look at_ me _like that?_

Will breaks, faltering every few seconds as he moves closer, until their mouths clash together with hungry desperation. Not only from Will. Hannibal is still in full control of himself, Will knows this, but he is less careful with him than before. He would only risk it if he knew it was acceptable.

It is very, very acceptable.

Breathing is hard, with open palms running up his back and teeth catching on his lips, and despite his better judgement Will is pressing forward, encouraging a slow buildup of emotion that is taking him…somewhere. His fingers loosen on the sweater, creeping down and underneath the fabric. He needs to feel skin. Too afraid to touch too long, he only glides over certain areas and moves on to the next, sometimes circling back to where he started. Their mouths part and Will is leaning heavily on him while sharp teeth graze his neck.

With a start, he realizes he wants to be explored, too, and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. When he becomes frustrated, unable to get them undone fast enough, steady hands rest over his own and help him, albeit painfully slow. He leaves it to Hannibal, yanking off glasses and throwing them aside, determinedly pulling off the sweater of the man below him before his own shirt can fall away.  

The fresh air is cruel, incredibly cold despite the flames flickering high in the fireplace across the room. He glues himself to Hannibal, chest to chest, setting his hands on either shoulder and resting his face against the top of his head while they share warmth and Will simmers down. One step at a time, he tells himself, steadying his breath as he drags his mouth down to Hannibal’s once again.

He shivers involuntarily, taking his time to taste him and be tasted, a thrill rolling through his body each time an inquisitive tongue slips inside and connects with and strokes his own. Will learns fast and reciprocates in kind. No one has ever kissed him like this. Try as he might, he can’t stop the eventual grind of his hips, or the gasp that erupts out of him once the waist below rises underneath him. They are equally immersed in the moment.

“I haven’t…” What was he going to say? He can’t breathe. There isn’t enough oxygen getting to his brain. All the blood in his body is draining into his dick. Oh, fuck it. He needs it, now. “Bite me.”

Hannibal is preoccupied with kissing the completely exposed skin of Will’s neck, and at his invitation, is more than accommodating. It’s sharp, pinching his flesh tight, the skin being sucked on as though it tastes absolutely wonderful. It’s going to leave an enormous bruise. Will wants it to.

He hasn’t thought about what happens next. He’s trying not to. Maybe he could stretch this out, somehow, without pulling away at the last second. Make it go on forever. He really should have thought this through. He’s panicking, even as he drowns in pleasure at another roll of the hips. They’re both hard. He doesn’t know how this typically works, yet it’s coming, naturally. He isn’t ready for…

“Oh! I’m so sorry!”

He wants to kill himself when an obviously female voice splits through the air, coming from the doorway of the study. This can’t be happening. Maybe he could get Hannibal to strangle him and pass it off as another odd sexual request. He thinks of asking him, quickly, but it’s too late.

“I-I was dropping off the key…I should have called…”

He hides his face in Hannibal’s shoulder, frozen in position. He refuses to pry himself away and turn around. No, no, definitely not. He’s not going to turn around. He can’t bear it.

Hannibal, in comparison, finishes marking Will’s throat and pulls his head back on his own terms, not at all hurried or bothered by the intrusion. Aside from the deep sigh that only Will would notice, who sinks lower in Hannibal’s lap as the air leaves his lungs.

“Hello, Alana.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Will has never been in a more awkward situation than this one, and his entire life has been a never-ending series of embarrassments, so this truly takes the cake.

No one utters a single word for what feels like a century, and Will takes the chance to regulate his breathing and get his bearings. It’s near impossible. Everything is slipping. _I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this. Of all the poor timing in the world…_

It hits him that Alana is here to return a key. A key to the house. _How long were they together?_ he wonders, breaking out in a cold sweat. _How long have they even been apart?_ His heart stills.

_Oh, God, am I a rebound?_

A gentle nudge brings him to the present, and he drags his gaze to Hannibal’s face. The look there holds some sort of obscure but genuine apology, and his own temporarily visible regret. A minuscule flash of emotion, just enough for Will to see and interpret it, and then it’s gone, replaced by a brick wall.

_Don’t turn around, don’t turn around._

Hoping his legs still work, Will slides out of Hannibal’s lap and bends to retrieve his shirt. He busies himself with the task of buttoning it up while Hannibal pulls on his own discarded sweater and passes him. To greet Alana properly, of course. If it were Will, he would have sent her on her way. _Wishful thinking_ , he figures, and tries his damndest not to pout over it.

“Hannibal, I am so sorry. I only wanted to drop by, I didn’t think…I mean…”

“It’s all right, Alana.”

 _It’s not_. He fills his lungs until they ache and turns on his heel to face the other two. Alana is oddly pale and her stance reminds him of a skittish doe. She shuffles from foot to foot, trying desperately to avoid eye contact. She is all the more tragically beautiful with such a distressed expression. It kills him that she is so nice, soft-spoken, and nervous. Very apologetic. It makes _him_ want to apologize, despite having nothing to be sorry for.

Aside from dry humping her ex-boyfriend, anyway.

“Will? It’s Will, right?”

He forcefully clears his throat, stumbling over even that, and isn’t sure whether he should stay put or join them. Hannibal appears to be quite at home, absently smoothing over the creases in his clothes, even as his hair appears to have been through nine kinds of hell. Will can only imagine what he looks like, himself. Certainly much, much worse.

“Yeah…” His voice is dangerously high and he swallows. “Sorry.” He means it, but it still comes out sounding sharp.

They (Alana and Will, rather) spend the next several seconds casting about uncomfortable sidelong glances, until,

“Coffee?”

 

* * *

 

“I just want you to know, Will, I don’t have any bad feelings about it. I don’t want you to think it’s like that. It’s not.”

 _I really don’t want to discuss this with you._ Will glares down at the steaming, caramel liquid in his mug, wishing he was anywhere else but in this dimly lit dining room with _her_. He would also prefer to wipe the smug look off Hannibal’s face. It’s just the slightest upwards turn of the lips, his maroon eyes dancing with the shadows of mild entertainment.

He must be having a blast.

“Thank you?” Will says, hoping the discomfort is obvious. It should be, but Alana bulldozes right through it. Credit where credit is due; she is a determined woman. No nonsense.

“I’ll be honest,” she begins while sipping on her coffee, at ease in her own skin now. Will is jealous. “I like you. Beverly loves you, you know, and she’s happy you’ve found someone. I really should have called. I’m sorry, again. I didn’t think, well. I didn’t see a car.” She shrugs her shoulders and peers up through thick lashes, as if to say, _What can you do?_

“Took a cab.” This is painful. Will shifts, scratching at an imaginary itch. "Beverly talks about me?”

“Only good things, I promise.” Alana gives him a small smile, and he forces a smile back, hoping it doesn’t look too much like he’s in the throes of agony.

Alana does sense the tension after all, and decides to leave it alone. Will listens in on a rather tame discussion about upcoming exams, and offers no input of his own. It’s nothing related to him, so he transfers his anxiety over to his own problems.

He stresses over what Winston might be up to, and checks the hour on his phone. It isn’t exactly late, but time has passed much faster than he thought it would.

_Please don’t be eating my shoes._

_Should I just leave?_

_They wouldn’t be able to stop me._

_Move. Why are you still sitting here?_

Suddenly, Alana is standing in front of him, and he realizes she has said something directed at him. He missed it. He rushes to his feet, anticipating a goodbye.

“I shouldn’t stay too long,” she says, with the same smile as before. “I’ll see you, Will.” She doesn’t hate him. She is well-meaning and he can appreciate that, mostly. Will takes the hand she offers him, hoping his isn’t too warm or damp. If it is, she gives nothing away, instead surprising him with a gentle squeeze.

She looks happy.

“Thank you,” he says, otherwise speechless, and sits.

Hannibal escorts her out, ever the gentleman, and Will notes the distant familiarity in their interactions. Relaxed, yet controlled. Comfortable, but aware. They know one another well. Will strangely finds no threat here; he can’t see anything remotely romantic between them, at least not now. There may have been, once. But he remains curious about it, and he’s stuck between feeling relief and disappointment at her untimely visit. He can hear muffled voices in the foyer, but he can’t quite make it out. It sounds like more apologizing. Poor Alana.

He spots the returned key, placed carefully on the table. Will stares at it, musing over when it might be offered to him to keep. No, not when. _If._ He’s giving himself too much credit.

Depressing.

When Hannibal returns, Will slinks out of his seat and comes forward. Hannibal pauses in the doorway, head tilted with curiosity. Will approaches him with unclear intentions. His mind isn’t working very well…He’s very confused, about a lot of things. Exhausted. The simplest solution; he dips his head into Hannibal’s chest and wraps his arms around his neck. Hugging.

Or clinging, rather, until Hannibal pulls him in, hand resting light on Will’s neck. The other presses against the small of his back. Hannibal doesn’t seem to have anticipated Will’s actions, his reaction to it being somewhat delayed. Thought over. Like everything else he does. Will buries his face into fabric, tries not to think about what that could mean.

Hannibal rests his chin on the top of Will’s head. “I’m sorry about that, Will.” The vibrations in his throat are oddly grounding.

“What happened between you two?” Will asks, his voice muffled by the sweater, but he makes no attempt to withdraw. He smothers himself against it instead. He wants to smell like him when he goes home, when he falls asleep alone.

“We wanted different things.”

Unsatisfying. Has he _ever_ given Will a straight answer?

“Please, don’t be so vague with me,” Will begs, and it does wonders. He will remember that.

“The chemistry was short-lived. I became fast interested in other things and she resented me for it, but it was a similar situation for her. Our relationship was the result of others simply expecting it to happen eventually. I suppose we felt a responsibility to try. It did not last long.”

“But you seem close.”

“We are, but not in the way we attempted to be. Our goals and values are alike but the connection ends there.”

Makes sense. Will accepts this explanation, a surge of warmth rising in his chest at the realization that he has finally gotten a real confession out of Hannibal on a more personal subject. He tightens his hold on him in silent gratitude. “Should we talk about earlier?”

“If you wish to.”

“Can we lie down for a minute?”

The split second of hesitation is enough to make Will smile, genuinely, knowing he surprised him.

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

The bed is magnificently enormous, and one of the first things Will notices is the sheer amount of blue in the room, along with a series of greys and other diluted tones. It’s striking. Orderly, expertly decorated, but the spread of the colors makes it less intimidating. Without much grace, he throws himself onto the mattress and stares at the illustrations on either side of the wall above. Prints, possibly Japanese, but beyond that he’s clueless about the make, meaning, or importance.

He scans the rest of the place, eyes landing on something that makes him grin wolfishly and reach to pull Hannibal down next to him. He complies, allowing Will to tangle their legs together while the laughing idiot himself points at the cause of his amusement.

“You have a fucking mirror pointed at the bed,” Will states, glancing at the horizontal object hanging from the opposite wall over a contemporary fireplace. It’s tilted down just slightly, and he can see himself from where he is. Perfectly. “What am I to infer from that?”

Hannibal mulls it over, sparing the mirror a glance before he dedicates it back to the man beside him. Always. “Perhaps I would like you to see firsthand just how stunning you are.”

_Shit, don’t say that!_

Flushing, Will makes no mention of it again and doesn’t plan to in the future. His breath comes out in already ragged puffs when Hannibal gradually leans in to refasten his teeth against the sensitive skin of Will’s throat once more. This is new. It’s been mostly Will initiating things until now.

“I…I want to talk…”

“Would you like me to stop?”

“No...” Sharp points scrape down to the tender area between shoulder and neck, gathering up a bite of new flesh to savor and mark. “I…I don’t know,” he confesses, hissing at the pain, and softening from the pleasure that follows. It’s exactly what he would have asked for. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You do. Treat it simple. Take what you desire.”

“Is that what you do?” It comes out as a whisper, his mind too focused on the hand traveling under his shirt, over his belly and along the exposed skin of his hips. He instinctively flinches, his back arching away from the touch. It's too raw, too nice.

“With respect.” Breath is hot on his throat again, but the bites have turned into delicate kisses.

“It sounds primal.”

“Isn’t everything?”

 _I don’t know._ “Kiss me.”

“’Kiss me, bite me’…” Hannibal repeats thoughtfully, startling Will, but he isn't mocking him. “Take, Will.”

Will’s eyes are wide and blue, drifting over to the mirror on the wall. He can see himself, the purple bruises on his neck much too noticeable, but they thrill him. _I belong._ To the lovely creature beside him that might as well be feasting on his flesh. He belongs, at least for now.

_Fine._

Will snags the collar of his companion’s sweater, tugging and threatening to tear it unless Hannibal follows it. It worked with the scarf, and it works now. A heavy weight sinks on top of Will, who revels in the sensation of being pinned down. He doesn’t feel like prey, as much as the man above him resembles a predator at times. This isn’t submission.

“Exactly. Very good.”

The praise is nice, though. _Tell me again..._

He stretches up to meet Hannibal’s mouth, daring to pull on his bottom lip with teeth, a bit carefully at first. His courage piles on once he realizes it’s fine, even enjoyable. Incredibly enjoyable. He holds tight to Hannibal’s waist, more than just urging him to rest between Will’s thighs. It feels even more intimate than before in the study.

_You’re in his bedroom, you idiot._

_Oh. I’m in his bedroom._

“What do you want, Will?”

Will hushes him with a deep kiss, tongue running over pointed teeth that aren’t his. He won’t be able to get over that. Or the crashing of their cheekbones. Any of it. He can’t bear to look at him when he fumbles with the front of his own pants, struggling with it for an eternity. He eventually succeeds in unbuttoning them and unzipping.

He takes Hannibal’s hand, biting his tongue as he guides fingers down between them and around himself. He can do this much.

“This, slow.”

 

* * *

 

He can’t breathe.

Slow, he’d said, and ever since then he’d been pleading, repeatedly, for the opposite.

He lies stiff, the back of his head pressed hard against the bed underneath him, hands covering his eyes and fingers digging into his forehead. If he moves them, he’ll see, and that will send him right over the edge.

Perhaps he should; Hannibal has been taking his sweet time, as he always fucking does, the bastard, grasping at the hard length between Will’s legs and littering warm kisses against his lower stomach. Too close, ever closer. Will has nearly thrown him off several times, purely from the level of enjoyment he’s getting out of it.

 _He’s touching me, he’s touching me, he’s touching me…_ It’s on repeat in his head, as he can hardly believe it, or believe that he’s _loving it_ , loving it to this degree. _No, not there, please no. Don’t you dare…_

Thankfully, he doesn’t. He won’t unless Will asks him to.

 _I can’t._ No, not today.

Weight shifts, and his legs are forced further apart to make room, which temporarily terrifies him, but clothes remain as barriers aside from the front of his cheap jeans being open. Skilled fingers stroke him, consistent for the most part but subject to changes depending on his reactions; whether he’s getting close or not close enough, wants more or wants less, slower, or faster.

“Will?”

 _No, don’t._ Will struggles against the hand that gently tries to remove his from over his face, but he’s weak and can’t put up much of a fight. _Don’t look at me._

His eyes open and from that point on he can’t shut them again.

His cheek warms under the palm that caresses it now, and he finally touches Hannibal back, running his fingers over the defined edges of his face and against soft lips. _It’s all right_ , red eyes tell him, as terrifying as they are, the bright flecks inside burning and severe. _Don’t hide from me._

 _I won’t._ Will moans into the mouth that covers his, swiping his tongue over teeth only to become entirely useless as euphoria washes over him. It sends shivers down his spine and then everywhere, his thighs tightening against the lean body hovering over his own. Kisses steal the last bit of air from his gaping mouth.

 

* * *

 

It’s too easy to stay a while, piled in the bed with long limbs intertwined like locked antlers between two male deer. Will keeps them in place, unwilling to let go, to part for even a moment. He can’t risk it. It might all go away if he does.

He’s staring at the ceiling, while an arm lies over his stomach. Almost possessive, but not quite. More for Will’s sake than Hannibal’s. Reassurance. _He has me figured out._ Their bodies are side to side, Hannibal resting his head next to Will’s. Resembles a dozing cat. He blinks too slow, too deliberate.

“Do you always move so quickly?” Will asks faintly, not minding when it slips out of his mouth and into the open air, as much as it may sound like an insult at first glance. He digs his fingers through brown hair, mesmerized with its short length (always) and how it falls back into place, bit by bit. Hannibal presses his head into the touch. “I’ve already admitted that I don’t.”

“Not quite like this.”

“I’m special,” Will hums, reciting what he’s been hearing over and over these past few weeks, and what continues to be implied.

“Hmm. You are unique.”

“Don’t you know how gorgeous _you_ are?”

“I’m flattered. I would explain it to you in a better way if it were possible; it isn’t physical. Hardly. Although you are aesthetically pleasing.”

Will ignores this, as he isn’t sure how to take it. “Try?”

“Perhaps…” Fading voice.

“Later, I guess.”

“Yes.”

“You’re tired.”

“Yes.” Hannibal is immensely relaxed, the arm on Will’s middle growing heavier.

“Shouldn’t I be the exhausted one?” he ventures, playfully. He doesn’t mind all that much.

“Yes. I’m surprised.”

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“As I’ve said before, I would not have done it if I had not wanted to.”

“I want…” Will bites his lip. “Just, give me more time. I’ll return the favor.” The mere idea of it is more than enough to make him blush. He’s pathetic.

“No favors, Will.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Take your time.” His accent is thickening.

“You’re falling asleep,” Will points out, finding that his own voice is coming out slower than usual. “I’m about to, too. I should go, Hannibal.”

“Stay a bit longer.”

It’s such an odd request from a man like him, who lives alone and keeps so few friends, is so confident. How can Will deny him?

“Okay.”

He’s happy to stay.

This is no stranger beside him, and he is in no stranger’s bed. Will watches maroon eyes close after they spend a few minutes in satisfied silence together, with Will petting him and Hannibal practically kneading Will in return. There isn’t a reason to speak. For the first time in his life, Will is content with no one talking to make up for the dead air. Not when they can contemplate their thoughts individually. Close, but without expectation.

_I’m falling in love with you, aren’t I? Is that what this is?_

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Light pours through the paper-thin curtains, spilling over the length of the bed and temporarily blinding Will as he wakes. _Where am I?_   He shifts, blinking, and finds himself trapped underneath heavy blankets. He must have fallen asleep at some point in the night, forgot to leave, but he couldn’t have tucked himself in. It’s painfully obvious who did. _Poor Winston_ , he worries briefly, but his anxiety eases at the sight of the slumbering figure next to him. Back turned, breathing slowed, at ease, and much too far away.

Winston will be all right for a little longer.

Will closes the gap. His muscles scream for mercy, aching from last night. He was too tense, seizing up with every wave of pleasure, only at being touched. He is going to have to learn to let go and embrace it, or his body will _really_ be useless when…

Better to not think of it now.

He shuffles across the mattress until he can rest his mouth at the nape of Hannibal’s neck and throw an arm possessively around his middle. He pulls their bodies together, lined up right against him, despite knowing this will most likely wake him. It’s difficult to feel any sort of guilt over the idea. _He did tell me to take what I want_ , Will reminds himself. _I’m just following your advice._ The outline parallel to his is blissfully accommodating. 

The back and shoulders pinned against his chest flex leisurely, a deep sigh erupting from the form in front of him. Perhaps he was already awake, or close to it. Will grits his teeth, striving not to be overwhelmed by the feelings the movement of their bodies stirs up in him. Every small touch feels like The First Time Ever. How cheesy. The few women he's been with were nothing compared to this. He’s a clean slate, now, being paved over with new and better experiences. It puts all else to shame.

_I’ve been missing out. Where have you been?_

Will noses at the back of his head, inhaling his scent. Just as sweet as ever. Only good things have been associated to this smell, so far. That helps. (So far? Way to set yourself up for disappointment.)

“You never woke me up,” Will says, breaking the quiet. It’s just an observation, not an accusation. It was best that he didn’t; Will would have missed this opportunity if he had.

“A moment of selfishness on my part.” It’s practically a _purr_ , laced around the edges with sleep, deep and rough. Yes, he would have missed this. “You will forgive me?”

“I don’t have much choice in the matter _.” I’ve already forgiven you._ Will blows out his breath against rich dark hair and watches it ruffle. His hand searches for a match to his, traveling over clothed stomach and ribs until it finds an arm and then another palm to grasp. It's warm, inviting. “Although, this isn’t the best way for you to go about winning over Winston. He may start to resent you if I go home smelling like you.”

“He must learn to share you eventually.”

A light blush runs across his face. Not one of those intense ones, but still bad. It’s easier to combat embarrassment when he isn’t being seen, or studied. Yet, he yearns to see those red eyes again. To turn him around and stare at them. They are fascinatingly hollow. Dead, but crackling with energy. Will can’t read him, and that should bother him, but he’s more often transfixed than unsettled by this.

“Are you so sure it isn’t the other way around, and I don’t smell like you?”

Hannibal's voice brings Will back into the present. He grimaces at the thought, the words registering with his wandering brain. “I sure hope not.”

“Yes, I feel the same.”

“Did you just make a joke? Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to hit you.”

“You are a terrible liar, Will.”

Will pulls himself up and hastily pushes Hannibal over on his back, intent on pinning him down. Hannibal doesn’t look intimidated in the least. Will deflates a little at this defeat, stricken once more by the sharp gaze that clashes with his own. In the light, the red irises are almost gold, and they flicker with gentle amusement at Will’s feeble attempt to instill fear.

He must try harder in the future.

“I could make you believe whatever I wanted,” he says, but his confidence plummets the longer they regard one another. He will always be the one to break first, won't he? It’s too much like meeting a hungry cougar face to face, separated only by a flimsy layer of wire mesh fence, and watching the fence bend and threaten to tear away.

The barrier between them falters. He isn’t sure if it’s him, pulling at the wire, or the cougar gnawing at it.

Will swallows, troubled by the silence, but ultimately decides to lie down, on top of the body below and holds it in place. Pleasantly hot, and exceptionally comfy. He rests his head, cheek flat against the thin fabric covering Hannibal’s shoulder. He rises with each inhale of Hannibal's, and lowers back down on the exhale. His own breathing starts to mimic the same pattern, until they are breathing together.

It’s so different from being beneath him. He doesn’t feel empowered in this position, per se, but...

“You aren’t as…solid? As I once thought,” he comments, desperately searching for something to clutch onto, and of course, being him, he lands on this possible insult. It isn’t intended to be taken as such, and he clarifies (or tries to) by rubbing his face against him. His hands go adventuring, finding that despite the generous amount of muscle, Hannibal is as gracefully slender as he imagined. It isn’t too unlike Will’s own body, though he has never considered describing himself as _slender_. Lanky, maybe. 

“Does it surprise you?”

Will shakes his head without lifting it, chin pressed into chest. He closes his eyes against the threat of imagined complaints, acquainting himself with the hard angles and curves under him. It doesn’t extract any reaction, positive or negative. It would seem Hannibal is indifferent to Will’s touch, but he has a hunch that it may be contemplation. On what, he can’t possibly figure. Perhaps he wants Will to simply explore on his own, without prompting. Maybe he doesn’t really care either way, and he’s thinking about other things.

Will can’t bring himself to see him as _that_ apathetic. Could he be bewildered? What would confusion look like in him? Would Will even recognize it?

“Talk to me,” Will urges.

He shivers at the response; long fingers brush over his hips and hook into the belt loops of his wrinkled jeans, tight. He’s surprised with an experimental tug, and his cheeks burn. They are crushed together. He hates and loves how well they fit, like the pieces of a puzzle, this way and that. This kind of harmony is all new to him. It has always been clumsy, hurried and awkward, until this fell into his lap. Or he fell into his.

“Would I be wrong in assuming you are somewhat touch-starved?”

Don't. He forces a nervous smile, pupils dashing all around the bed, anywhere except on Hannibal. “I know how to touch and be touched.”

“But not by a man. Is it really so different for you?”

 _No. It’s not a big deal. I’m just making this harder than it needs to be._ But he would never admit that, not aloud. For now, he settles on slowly shaking his head (how many times is that now?) while he chews on the inside of his lips until he tastes iron. “It would be easy for someone like you, wouldn’t it?” he snorts, panic rising when fingers slip beneath the waist of his pants. It feels so good, but he's getting defensive. “I imagine everything else comes just as naturally. It does for everyone, but not for me. I don’t have that luxury.” The fingers halt.

Over the seconds, he’s been pulling away. Shifting his weight and preparing to withdraw. But he’s caught by the wrist when he makes to go through with it. The grip is firm, but if he yanked his arm away it would slide right out. He decides to leave it where it is, and raises his eyes to meet the curious maroon tides below him. The perfection that awaits is like a slap in the face.

It would be easier if Hannibal wasn’t so perfectly fucking composed, all the time. His messy hair, ruined from sleep, but somehow wide awake and inquisitive. A walking contradiction, in all things. 

“I did not mean to offend you.” Hannibal regards him with a serious look, his tone more controlled than before. Not coaxing, necessarily, but that is exactly what it does to poor Will, whether that was the point or not. He delights in the mere sound of his voice.  “I only think you should allow yourself to explore your desires more freely. I will of course respect your decisions.”

Will eases himself back down, letting the words sink in while he smothers himself in fabric and gradually pushes it away to reveal skin. Distracting. What might it feel like, with no walls at all between them? It would be nothing new, in the grand scheme of things. Why does it feel so threatening, then?

It would be an admittance. Open the door to all sorts of other opportunities. But he wants them, so why be this hesitant? Is there something he’s missing? Nothing feels out of place. He latches onto the exposed flesh of Hannibal’s stomach with a tentative bite, savoring the reaction he finally gets out of him; tensing muscle.

“Come here,” Will instructs, because if he doesn’t say something, it isn’t going to happen. He pulls his shirt over his head and somehow isn’t surprised when he finds Hannibal is folding his own. Fucking ridiculous. Will yanks it out of his hands and throws both of their shirts across the room, missing the armchair he was aiming for by a mile. He takes small comfort out of the displeased expression that tries to shame him, to no avail. He avoids it further by sinking forward to connect their lips.

There is no possible way he would ever tire of just this. It’s a reunion, every single time. 

“Would you tell me what they are?”

Will swallows the words that fall out of Hannibal’s mouth, hungry for them, but not wanting to hear them. Can’t he be quiet? _Well, I did tell him to talk to me._   “Tell you what?” he sighs, giving up his full weight on the man below, who at least takes it in stride. Will can’t be that heavy, at any rate. Well, he certainly hopes not.

“Your desires, Will.”

 _Haven’t I been telling you?_   Will briefly flicks through all the instances in which he has asked for or initiated an exchange, and after reviewing them he guesses this isn’t what was meant. He’s at a loss. In his frustration, he sinks his teeth into a flawlessly full bottom lip, expecting the hint to be taken and the subject dropped. He doesn’t expect to be bitten in return, and stifles a yelp that would have surely set Winston off, had he been here. 

Lesson learned.

“You have to be more specific,” he says, breaking away to wipe at a small bead of blood with his finger.

His eyes widen at the sight of Hannibal taking his hand, inspecting it, and promptly guiding the stained digit inside his mouth. His tongue runs over the skin, wet and warm, and Will can feel the edge of pointed teeth just scraping over the first joint. The sensation of a gentle suck, massaging his finger. He _must_ know what he’s doing. Will is feeling weak. He doesn’t withdraw, his finger only returned to him because Hannibal pushes it away, and not because Will takes it. He would have let him keep it. He contemplates swooning when Hannibal reaches up to offer the same treatment to Will's injured lip. He gives himself over freely.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he whispers afterward, not even half meaning it. “It’s unsanitary or something.”

“You think so?”  

“Yeah.” _Is it the blood thing or the sucking thing that I'm finding so appealing?_   Both are peculiarly exciting. He would do better to toss a coin. 

“Have you any diseases I should know about, Will?”

“I’ve got it. I’ve got you figured. You’re well-to-do, you dress well, you have stupidly good manners, and excellent taste…”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t look so pleased, I’m not finished. You’ve got a funny accent and-“

“Funny accent?”

“I bet you dance, too.”

“I do.”

“Of course you do. And now, you drink blood. You are obviously a vampire and I have landed into a late-eighties to mid-nineties cult classic. It explains everything.”

“I imagine it would.” He doesn’t sound impressed.

_I wonder if he even knows a thing about pop culture. I’ll have to test it sometime._

“Not into vampires, then.” Will feigns a pout, then brightens as he pokes deeper. “Or do you prefer monsters, maybe?”

He silences the gasp before it can escape, near breathless from the sudden, gentle bite on his hand, still caught in Hannibal’s mouth. He didn’t see it coming. It isn’t a threat, or meant to hurt or draw blood again. He closes his eyes for a moment, and can’t be bothered with feeling embarrassment at how much he apparently enjoys being nibbled on.

“A man-eater, then,” Will murmurs at last, after composing himself best he can, and smiles when one spreads across Hannibal’s own lips. Contagious. Teeth release his hand, and a tongue laps at the slight indentations in the skin, almost reverently.

“I guess crosses and garlic won’t work on you, then,” Will sighs, fascinated at having Hannibal laid out before him kissing his extremities like he's a god or a king. “I’m doomed, I’m afraid.”

“It would seem that way. I rather enjoy looking at crosses.”

“I think I can live with it.”

“Good.”

“ _Don’t-_ do that. _Ouch!_ Quit it, really _. And stop smiling._ You don’t have to look so smug.”

Hadn’t he wanted to talk about something? It’s forgotten.

 

* * *

 

It must be early afternoon when Will gives enough of a shit to check the time and disentangle himself from Hannibal. His skin immediately craves the company again, and he makes a fast job of grabbing his discarded phone and reattaching himself to Hannibal’s side. He tucks his head underneath the crook of an arm, forcing his way in rather than asking. He is happily received, all the same, and shivers at the heat that washes over him. 

How long has it been since he felt so free as to lounge around with another human being? Half-naked, or fully clothed, either way, he can’t remember another instance where he felt so _cozy._ He spares his partner a glance, finding his eyes closed and head resting back against the piles and piles of enormous pillows. 

Content. 

“You’re too warm to be a vampire,” Will comments offhandedly, returning his leg to where it was, hooked over one of Hannibal’s.

“Please,” Hannibal sighs, and Will has to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid grinning. It’s fairly sore at this point. “No more.”

“Well, look at me,” Will says, gesturing to his heavily bruised throat. All from being loved upon too much (not enough) in the past night and several hours. He appreciates it greatly, however, and will wear the marks proudly. In his own home, though. Not in public. God, no way. He’ll have to take great care and wear Hannibal’s scarf throughout the week to hide them. If Beverly so much as catches a glimpse, he will hear about it for a solid day and a half. "You're merciless." 

“Would you prefer mercy?”

No. “Not from you.” Will stretches to reach him, and is helped along when he comes up short. Arms encompass his waist, something he’s grown shockingly used to in such a short period. He flushes, struggling with holding the gaze that might as well be drilling holes into his head. How is it possible to blush so much? It can’t have gone unnoticed.

Once more, Hannibal's eyes seem devoid of feeling, even if his actions prove otherwise. Will simply can’t penetrate the outermost layer, can’t see what’s in his mind. He has put up unscalable walls. It’s usually so easy to climb over, which is one reason Will can’t stand being around others. This, his inability to comprehend much of anything in Hannibal’s eyes unless he wants him to, is both a blessing and also very strange.

For now, he will ignore the latter. He comes up with the perfect excuse for avoiding confrontation, seeking out Hannibal’s addictive mouth. He almost recoils when a hand cups his cheek, nothing but kind, fingers dragging over skin and leaving burning, invisible traces. Marks.

What a shame he must eventually come up for air.  _I wouldn’t mind drowning in you._

Hannibal must know that, too.

“Tell me what you think of me,” Will whispers, regretting it right on the spot. But he finds himself quieted with more kisses, heaving out a hard breath when his tongue is assaulted by another. It strokes him, convinces him to release himself and open his mouth wider. Beg. He slips away to another place where only this matters. Grinds against equally eager flesh. The world spins. His lungs scream, while he remains mute. It would be a sin to stop now. He eats his words.

“Beautiful.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

_Beautiful._

All the blood in his body runs cold.

God, he can’t say that. He can’t mean it. He can’t.

Will has been called many things. Cute. Even handsome, once. The occasional “ _you’re such a fucking asshole_.” But never “ _beautiful._ ” That’s a new one.

His heart swells with a mixture of appreciation and mortification. He is forced to concentrate deeply on his breathing, to ease the temporary vertigo that wracks his body, and he silently curses himself for being so easily (and severely) affected by Hannibal’s brand of flattery. It’s embarrassing, how the utterance of this one single word virtually sends him to his knees. Tightening his hold on Hannibal, Will screws his eyes shut and searches helplessly for an appropriate response. _Thank you,_ perhaps? Would that suffice?

“I’m not fishing for compliments,” he begins carefully, only to be interrupted between words by a starving mouth. It’s hot and invasive, and unexpected. The clashing of their tongues delivers an electric shock inside his throat, stealing his air, flowing into his belly, and then all the way down into his crotch. His thoughts shatter in a million different directions, scattering like a flock of frightened birds. _Oh._

The intensity dies down after a few slow, drawn-out exchanges, leaving him hyper-aware of his aching lungs and the rapid beat of his heart. He can _hear_ it. A hand clamps down on his upper thigh, fingers brushing gently against the fabric in a coaxing manner. It takes a minute to readjust, to remember exactly where he was, what he was saying. He expresses his confusion with a nervous laugh that lasts a little too long. “B-but forgive me if I have a hard time believing that. Maybe you think so, but I don’t agree with you.”

His lips are abandoned entirely then, forcing him to open his eyes again and endure the heightened look Hannibal gives him. The maroon irises he has grown so attached to study the lines of his face, the content in his own eyes. Will imagines he is being examined the way someone might view a particularly frustrating math problem. He can’t tell if the expression on Hannibal’s face is one of veiled concentration or perhaps concern; it could be neither. Will knows he’s gone pale, unable to hold up for long under the intense scrutiny.

Hannibal only gives him two words, delivering them with the utmost sincerity, “You will.”

Will stares back, dragging deliberately over the features of Hannibal’s face. They appear even more defined under the knifelike light of the afternoon sun, incredibly unique, too close to what Will might consider “perfect.” Young, exotic. He is a fucking Greek sculpture. How did Will end up here, in his bed, listening to the words of praise that spill out of that fine mouth, aimed at Will?

What can he say? The sun’s rays that flow into the room warm his exposed shoulders, while he presses the front of his body against Hannibal and savors the closeness they share. He could care less about whatever else is going on in the world. His entire life thus far has been spent worrying over tomorrow, the day after, the weeks ahead, and here he is in the now, not giving a single shit about what will happen in an hour, in a day. This is what concerns him.

All of it feels suspiciously perfect. He doesn’t _do_ perfect. He and perfect are not friendly. They never have been.

_Take, Will._

_I can do that…_

He deserves to be happy, doesn’t he? The hole in his heart he has been ignoring for so long is being filled as the second pass. Perhaps sloppily, possibly too full, or not full enough, but something is in there. It’s trying. Something alien, glowing, and unfamiliar. Growing.

 

* * *

 

Once Will returns to his apartment, Winston greets him with an exceptionally wild excitement and practically bowls him over in the doorway, leaping directly into his arms. He very nearly throws out Will’s back in the process, sending him reeling and struggling to keep them both upright. All the distant sadness Will felt on the way here dissipates when Winston laps messily at his cheek, complete with horrendous breath.

The ride in the cab had been painfully lonesome without Hannibal (he is growing fast dependent, it would seem), but now Winston takes it upon himself to cheer Will up. He sniffs at Will’s clothes, nosing at every inch with his tail wagging a mile a minute, until he’s at last satisfied. Will is Will. He doesn’t seem too bothered by Will being covered head to toe in Hannibal’s scent. He likely recognizes it and associates it with gourmet treats from Hannibal’s kitchen.

Not a bad idea. Will decides to keep it in mind if Winston continues to be aggressive the next time he takes him to visit, and Will gets too… _vocal_ around Hannibal. If he can’t convince the dog that he’s not being assaulted, perhaps he can at least bribe him into ignoring it.

He missed Winston, and Winston missed him just as much. Winston follows him around, glued to his heel while Will digs through piles of hurriedly folded clothes in search of a fresh outfit. It’s a fruitless mission. Will gives him a rub behind the ears and asks him if he’s hungry. Winston, the smart little bastard that he is, lets out a deep, bellowing bark in response. One of the neighbors smacks something against a wall, so Will asks Winston again, and allows him a few more woofs for good measure.

“Fuck you, that’s right. Say ‘fuck you,’ Winston. Well, you tried. Good boy.”

He’ll take him for a walk in a bit. It’s getting colder and colder outside, but he can still manage a brief jog. It won’t be long before it inevitably snows and makes everything that much more miserable around here. The weather is despicable. He needs someplace warmer, where he can dress down and work outside and get a natural tan. Somewhere near an ocean might be nice. Somewhere he can let Winston run off his leash throughout the day. Maybe he misses Louisiana. It could be nice, going home, even for just a summer.

It has been a long time since he thought about the future in such a positive light.

He leaves Winston to his feast, picking up stray clothes on his way to the bathroom. With a gentle nudge, the door is kicked shut behind him and he runs the shower. Shrugging off his shirt and pants, he takes a long look at the reflection in the mirror and runs his hands over the bruised bites and hickeys that sprinkle over his neck and shoulders. It’s oddly satisfying knowing he’ll be carrying around a reminder of Hannibal in his skin, for at least a week. It’s unlikely they will disappear before then, with the extent of the damage.

It had been so hard to leave. He was too afraid to ask when they would see each other again. Instead, he had insisted through awkward body language on a frenzied make-out session, giving neither of them any time to get another word in before he just stopped, grabbed his things, and left, making up some sorry excuse or other under his breath. Hannibal clearly knew. He had to know, but he humored Will anyway, wishing him well and offering a ride home that Will immediately declined.

 _“I’ll call you later,”_   Will had said, unable to stop his mouth in time.

_“Please do, I would like that.”_

It had made his heart soar inexplicably high.

The water is near scalding hot, a replacement for the warmth he shared with Hannibal earlier. Will had…been touched, to completion. And then they had _slept in the same bed._ All night, no complaints. In fact, Will had been welcome. They had wrestled throughout the morning, trading affectionate embraces and tentative words of endearment. Explored each other. It bothers him, how much he yearns to return as soon as possible. He doesn’t want to make this an obsession, but. Damn it, it’s where he wants to be. It must be the newness of it all.

Usually he struggles with wanting to see his partners again after the first night. There’s never a connection. Now, he can’t get enough.

The steam is almost suffocating, but the drizzle falling against his shoulders and head feels so good. His eyes close and he leans back against the wall, facing the ceiling. The longer he spends in this state, the more stable he feels, drifting away to other worlds, and made up situations. Fantasies. He might even fall asleep.

What if.

Will chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully, and pulls up a vivid recreation of the scenario from this morning behind his eyelids. He changes a few things. Carefully removes the rest of their clothes. His face burns at the image of what might lie beneath the outer layers that have shielded Hannibal from his view until now _. I have to know._

_You will._

He raises an arm and grasps his own neck, daringly imagining the fingers that drag against his skin as belonging to someone else. They prod and pinch at the bruised flesh, and spread out over his bare chest, and lower to his stomach. He inhales involuntarily, drawing away from his own hand in shock. It doesn’t feel like his. It returns, barely fluttering over his smooth belly, causing skin to prickle all over with excitement. His other hand rests on his hip, sinks to his thigh.

Exploring himself in this manner is something he has never cared to do before now. The act of self-love is usually, for him, carried out with one goal in mind, and only done out of necessity. A quick relief. Touching himself and imagining someone else behind the touch is an entirely new phenomenon. Taking it slow, for the sake of building up the pleasure, is an equally new experience. It’s alluring.

What if he had gone further this morning, or last night. If he had woken Hannibal up, if he had straddled him when he pinned him down, if they had been naked. Grinding against one another until the sweat ran like rain between their bodies, soaking the sheets. The sweet friction. If…

_Shit. I could have touched you. I could have felt how hard you were, how hard I was, taken us both in my hand. Why didn’t I do that? Would you have made a sound? I’m going to touch you until you do. I want to see you unraveled. I want you to do the same thing to me. I want to stroke us, together, kiss you, swallow your moans and force you to swallow my own, bring us to the very edge and pull away and watch you arch your back and thrust into my hand. I want you to look like the wild creature that we both know you are. I want…I want you to bring that out in me, too. Let me bite you. Bite me back, draw blood. Lick my wounds. Would you fuck me, or let me fuck you?_

“Oh, fuck.” _Oh, oh, oh._ He brings a free palm to his mouth and bites down against his thumb, and Hannibal’s pointed teeth flash through his mind. He releases it right away, breathing hard against his hand while he strokes the throbbing length between his legs. Even when he opens his eyes, he can’t see reality, only the red glint that returns his stare, can only feel the long fingers that squeeze and tug at him almost cruelly, relentless. His jaw drops open and the most pitiful sound erupts from his throat. Not quite strangled, but the cry of a small beast of prey. Hunted. Teeth at his throat. It’s almost over. _I’m so close._

 _Hannibal._ He can’t see at all now, his vision filled with black dots at the peak of his hysteria. The steam of the shower and his irregular breathing, all combined with the level of pleasure rolling through his body, has brought him to the brink of fainting. His knees nearly give out as he groans and smacks his head against the wall amidst the turmoil. It doesn’t take away from his satisfaction, at all.

Will slides into the shower floor, desperate for oxygen. He pulls back the curtain a little, letting in a rush of fresh, freezing air. He stretches his legs out in front of him and waits for his sight to return, the dots clouding his eyes disappearing over time. The ringing in his ears, he had not noticed, until it starts to fade. Next time, he thinks with a heavy sigh, he’ll have to do this in a more controlled environment, where he won’t pass out. _Next time, you could do it with him. Again._ Oh, enough. _Let me enjoy this, just for a minute._

Enjoy it he does, his muscles loose and unwilling to move for a very long time.

 

* * *

 

Sitting in the chair at his desk, he ignores the dripping water that falls from his dark curls. It is soaked up immediately by the thick sweater on his back. He fidgets in his jeans. The only washed pair he could find, unfortunately shrunk a size too tight. The red scarf is spread out across his bed, and he won’t put it on until he’s absolutely done drying off. He doesn’t want to spoil it with water, or anything else. It’s special. It belongs to Hannibal. It smells like him, and he’s going to keep it as clean and untainted as possible.

Winston lies curled up on the floor at his feet, belly full of food. Will plans to take him for a walk shortly, hoping for digestion to kick in first. He doesn’t want to have to go out two times in a row, too soon. For now, Will rests his head in his hand and stares at the browser on his computer, his light blue eyes illuminated by the bright screen. Despite his internal embarrassment, he’s scrolling through forums and articles, researching exactly what he needs to do to prepare for…an advancement in his relationship with Hannibal.

Well, it’s better than going in blind, and making a _complete_ fool of himself the minute it turns into something more sexual. With a displeased expression, he takes mental notes and tries his best to push away his growing interest and enthusiasm. None of it sounds particularly pleasing, alone or with anyone else, but with Hannibal, it has a certain pull. He’s curious. Sex in general has never been at the top of his List of Important Things, until now.

_Ping._

_Ping._

One of the several tabs lights up and blinks. He forgot he had it open.  
  
  
  
_You Have (2) New Messages._

**the_slayer** : good morning sleeping beauty  
**the_slayer** : hows the weekend been so far

 **sadmutt** : it’s been good. really good actually

 **the_slayer** : oh happy day  
**the_slayer** : seriously though, cool  
**the_slayer** : mine fucking sucks

 **sadmutt** : sorry to hear that

 **the_slayer** : it’s whatever  
**the_slayer** : hey  
**the_slayer** : i haven’t said anything because well i was obviously waiting for you to get your ass online  
**the_slayer** : but  
**the_slayer** : well you remember abel told me your address

 

Will had tried to forget that. He’d done his best to push it to the back of his mind.

 

 **sadmutt** : yeah. we never confirmed if it was correct, though

 **the_slayer** : want to?  
**the_slayer** : well  
**the_slayer** : what i’m trying to say is if it’s right then i’m kind of in town right now

 

Oh.

Will shoves the chair backwards. Winston stirs, and Will stands up, walks into the bathroom and finishes drying off his hair, all while his brain buzzes numbly. He’s ignoring the mere possibility, his anxiety so high that it doesn’t even manifest physically other than with mild dissociation. It can’t. This can’t be happening. Not possible. He goes blank.

He returns after shaving, in no real rush, to several messages.

 

 **the_slayer** : ok i’m really not trying to freak you out, i promise  
**the_slayer** : it’s a total coincidence, i swear, but i noticed  
**the_slayer** : well i mean we’re cool right?  
**the_slayer** : i thought maybe we could say hi, i don’t know  
**the_slayer** : it would be in public obviously  
**the_slayer** : yeah this is dumb i’m sorry

 

Maybe he’s spent too much time around Hannibal. But he remains relatively calm, considers his options, and weighs the pros and cons. If Matt knows where he is, regardless, it wouldn’t hurt to meet him in person somewhere else. If Will tells him no, he could just show up at his apartment without his permission anyway.

Will could still say no, and he could sit here and worry about an unwanted visit for hours. Or he could be a man, and get it over with in a much safer setting, in public.

Hannibal wouldn’t approve.

_Well, Hannibal doesn’t have to know._

Matt is his friend. Sort of.

It’s the next logical step. _(Keep telling yourself that.)_

 

 **sadmutt** : baltimore?

 **the_slayer** : yeah, that’s what he said

 **sadmutt** : okay

 **the_slayer** : okay?

 **sadmutt** : want to meet?

 **the_slayer** : yeah!

Time to scope him out. What the fuck does he want?

 


	14. Chapter 14

It’s fucking cold.

Will breathes warmth back into his palms, watching the visible wisps that puff out of his mouth and into the open, and disappear. He shouldn’t have walked here. It had been a final effort at saving money, since he’s blown a lot of cash lately on taxi rides. Reckless. He isn’t looking forward to the jog home, although Winston will surely love it, being protected by his own personal thick fur coat.

Winston peers up at him through big watery brown eyes, his head resting in Will’s lap. The two of them rest in the seating area outside a local café (no dogs allowed inside), while Will scratches Winston under the chin with one hand and holds a steaming cup of coffee in the other. It warms him up only slightly.

His nerves are fried, and he fidgets in his seat repeatedly over the course of the few minutes he has been here. He tucks his mouth and nose down into the cover of the scarf tied around his throat, and contemplates calling it off. Matt will recognize him instantly by the dog. Will doesn’t want to be recognized. He would much rather see him coming, get a moment to take him in, his appearance and demeanor, before they meet. He is at a severe disadvantage here.

 _It’s public._ Will spares a glance around the area, noting the gradual dispersal of other customers, and that most are choosing to pile inside the café rather than outside. _Nothing bad is going to happen. Unless I get stabbed. Or shot. All right, maybe this wasn’t such a great idea._ He rolls his head back, listening to his neck crack and temporarily relieve the built-up tension there. Winston’s ears perk up and he tilts his head to one side.

At least the sun is threatening to shine from behind the clouds. It might warm up a little today.

It had been warm in Hannibal’s bed this morning.

_Stop._

Will hasn’t called him. He isn’t sure when he should. _I was practically just there._ He closes his eyes and attempts to shut off the sound of the terrible music that pours out of the speakers attached to the café. He can feel himself floating away, quieting his mind, going someplace else. Anxiety over this morning has no place here, not right now. He has much more to be concerned with than a simple phone call.  

“You’re Will?”

Like that.

His eyes shoot open again, adjust to the brightness. The figure standing just a few feet away from him comes into focus, revealing it to be the lanky form of a young man, just a bit older than Will himself. The word that immediately comes to mind is “bony.” Not quite angular, not like Hannibal, but still full of hard edges. They cut rather than compliment. He’s shorter than Will imagined, but carries himself in a lazy, slow manner that oozes self-confidence. His eyes are round and hollow, his spiked hair cut just a bit too close to the scalp.

He reminds Will of a bird of prey.

Not surprisingly, he’s dressed down, in exactly what Will would have pinned him for. Mostly black, scuffed and worn stuff, with a logo slapped over it. And leather.

No weapon in sight. _Safe._

Will makes to stand, taken off guard when Matt rushes him and envelops him in a tight hug, leaving him stunned and choking on unspoken words. This, he had not expected. He swallows, and awkwardly, painfully, returns the gesture. Matt smells like smoke. When Matt pulls away, his hands remain firmly on Will’s arms for a few seconds longer. He looks pleased. Or is that amusement?

“Matt, obviously,” he says, offering to validate his own identity in case Will (who remains somewhat slack-jawed) didn’t get the memo. “Matthew Brown.”

“Will Graham.” It’s all he can think to say.

Dark eyes flit down to the dog at Will’s side. “Yours?”

“Winston,” Will manages, quickly recovering, and lays a hand on Winston’s head. Winston steps forward to give Matt a cautious sniff, but Matt steps back and seats himself opposite Will, uninterested in his dog. Will retakes his own seat, more than a little thrown off by the hug, and the blatant disregard of Winston, who honestly looks as confused as Will feels. _Sorry, buddy._

“Cool, cool,” says Matt, who slinks deep in the chair and stretches out his legs, entirely at home. The only explanation for this behavior is he must have trouble with boundaries. “Great to meet you, Will. You look how I figured. You’ve got that lost puppy look about you.”

“I think I’ve been told that a few times.” It’s true. It isn’t any less true now that he has one, unfortunately. “What are you in town for, then?” he asks warily, having trouble gauging him right away. Too unpredictable, but this is definitely the person Will has been talking to all these weeks.

“Oh, some job stuff.” Matt laughs, for what seems to be no reason, or at an inside joke that Will isn’t a part of. Or doesn’t get. So far, his first impression of Matt is that he’s impulsive, and up front. Potentially brutal. “I just figured it was worth a shot, see if I could meet you while I’m here. Not every day you get the chance.”

Will regards him with a small nod. “Yeah. How long are you going to be here? In town.” Of course in town.

“Maybe a week or two. We’ll have to see.”

“Gotcha...”

There is an uncomfortable silence, which is apparently only uncomfortable to Will, because Matt is more than happy to look him over with a small smile and offer nothing else to the conversation, while Will stumbles in search of a topic. It isn’t to see him squirm, it’s just his natural state.

Strikingly familiar.

Something he should be catching onto, but he can’t fully grasp it.

“Want something?” he says at last, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the café, but Matt just shakes his head.

“I can’t afford that shit, no thanks.” When Will opens his mouth he adds, “And no, don’t buy me one, either. Not having you treat me like the ‘poor’ friend. We don’t need to start that already.”

“I’m not exactly well off, myself,” Will offers.

“We have that in common.” Matt’s eyes scan over Will, yet again, up and down and up again, and finally land squarely on the red scarf. “Except that.” He leans over the rickety, cheap table between them without warning. He grabs the end of the fabric and brushes his fingers over it, seeming impressed with the quality.

Will does his best not to withdraw, paranoid about the marks that still lie hidden on his neck. Then paranoid because this is weird. And at last, irritated because this is Hannibal’s scarf and he doesn’t want anyone else touching it. Matt has zero respect (or awareness?) for personal space.

It rubs him wrong.

“Nice. Did you save all your money for that? It doesn’t really go with what you’re wearing. Not that I’m one to talk about fashion or anything. As you can see.”

Will isn’t sure if he should be offended at any of this. “It was a gift.”

Matt leans back at that, and as easily as he ignored Winston, he forgets about the scarf, but he looks a tad bit disconcerted with Will’s explanation. It’s unmistakable. How come? “Cool,” he huffs, taking his attention elsewhere.

Winston noses forcefully at Will’s hand, earning a reassuring pat on the head while Will attempts to make conversation once more. He’s speechless. _I’m not sure what I expected._ He lifts his head, forces himself to make eye contact. Matt’s eyes are dark, but instead of appearing haunted they hold nothing except satisfaction right now.

“Have you talked to Abel recently?” Will asks.

Matt grunts, taking his time with a drawn-out stretch before he answers the question verbally. There is a nervousness to him now. “Yeah. That creep. I guess I should tell you I also met him, since I’m here. Two birds with one stone, right?”

Seriously?

“What did you think of him?” Will takes his coffee in hand, gives himself a moment to drink and listen to whatever spills out of Matt’s mouth next. He doesn’t address the fact that Matt saw it fit to meet Abel in person, after they both agreed he was unsettling and generally just Not Very Good. This meeting must have taken place before Matt even considered seeing Will. How did that happen, exactly?

“Oh, he’s real full of himself. Like, entirely.”

“Very full.” That would be putting it lightly.

“I think it’s mostly show, though. He’s not…” Matt looks toward the sky, as though it could provide him with the answers. He heaves out a sharp breath when it gives him nothing.

“He gave you my address,” Will points out. “I’m still not sure why he knows where I live, either.”

“It’s not like I was going to come and kill you or whatever.”

“He didn’t know that.”

“Nothing happened, though. You’re alive. I think he’s kind of fucked up, yeah, but I think that’s about it.”

“I thought he’d been harassing you?”

“Well, I did say he was fucked up.”

It takes all of Will’s self-control not to roll his eyes. He wants to get a little more information out of him before he puts him off. He inevitably will, by accident or on purpose. “What was it like, then? You practically idolized the both of them, remember?” It wasn’t even that long ago. _What has your attention so switched?_

“Disappointing,” Matt says flatly, with such a scathing look in his eyes that Will averts his own, even if it isn’t directed at him. Matt doesn’t offer anything else, and Will doesn’t particularly want to start pulling teeth to learn more. He doesn’t know how Matt would react to it. _I ‘know’ him, but I don’t really know him._

“What’s your job here, then?” Matt has always been dodgy about his profession. Might as well ask now.

And there it is, not all that surprising, but still deeply disturbing: “I may have lied a little about that.”

It’s admitted with a friendly smile, without any ill-will, but that makes it even worse. _Please tell me you didn’t come here purely for me, after all. Please don’t._ Matt just stares at him, appearing to be pleased with himself, and on the verge of laughing about it. Will doesn’t find it funny, can’t even be bothered to fake a grin. This is not okay.

He gnaws on his bottom lip, which is no doubt showing signs of all the abuse it has endured in the last twenty-four hours without his own help. He swallows. “My dog is getting cold. I should take him home.”

Matt wipes at the smile on his face with his hand, but it doesn’t go away. If anything, it just grows wider. He rolls his eyes, shows his teeth, as Will stands and tries collect himself. “Oh, come on, Will. It’s not like that. You know better than anybody that I don’t have shit else to do. Call it a vacation. Baltimore looked nice.”

“Baltimore is hardly nice,” Will says quickly, picking up the plastic cup and searching desperately for a trash bin. “But I really have to go home right now.”

“I just got here...”

“Sorry.” _Fuck, I can’t even sound like I mean it._ The fuck is wrong with this guy? Will knows what social awkwardness is, he knows how hard it can be to understand certain boundaries, he really does. He knows what it is to say the wrong thing aloud and have the entire group looking back at him, judging him. To be judged without even opening his mouth. But this is unacceptable behavior, bordering on obsessive.

Matt genuinely appears to be hurt, and unfortunately for him, Will only harbors a small amount of guilt over it. He decides to hold onto the stupid fucking coffee cup, because the only trash bin in sight is near the entrance of the café, and he wants to get out, not get cornered in. Gathering Winston’s leash up in his fingers, he winds it tight around one hand to keep Winston close.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says with a suppressed sigh, standing his ground when Matt pushes himself to his feet as well.

“Can I at least get your number, or is that too much? I mean, I already know where you live, man. Shit, I didn’t mean it like that.” Matt’s composure falters, and with the way he stumbles over himself Will is starting to feel bad about considering him a threat. He’s weird, not dangerous.

It’s still stupid, but he does have a point. He already knows where Will lives. What’s a number going to do now? Other than possibly earn him a series of relentless text messages at inopportune times of the day and night.

“Okay,” Will says through gritted teeth. With growing regret, he pulls out his phone and brings up his contacts, and gives it to Matt for him to fill out his own information. He feels better about it this way. Matt takes it eagerly and doesn’t seem to snoop, quick enough to enter a name and number before he hands it back. He looks downright giddy about this success.  

Will isn’t sure how to proceed, but he doesn’t want another hug, so when Matt steps forward he just extends a hand. Matt halts, catches on, and takes it after a moment. “Nice meeting you?” Will offers, hoping he sounds sincerer than he feels.

“Yeah, glad you agreed.” Matt isn’t fooled, and his disappointment shows in everything; his tone of voice, the expression on his face, the way he’s carrying himself so much more carefully. But he’s also clearly taking a milder approach. Less pushy. Will is grateful for that, at least. “See you around?”

It would probably be cruel to say no, so Will gives a curt nod, turning his head away. Avoid eye contact. Make it easier. “Yeah, we’ll see about it. Hope you can find other things to do while you’re here, though.”

“I’ll try.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah.”

Will leaves him standing there alone, too anxious to glance back and check if he’s being followed. Winston is more than happy to tag along, even lead the way, his tail strangely low. He’s jumpy for the rest of the walk, scaring too easily at the traffic and crowd, which in turn makes Will just as restless.

 

* * *

 

His good friend Jack Daniels is still stuffed in the back of his freezer, abandoned and untouched since the morning after he called Hannibal, when they first met in person by accident.

He figures this is as good an excuse as any to pull it back out and pour a glass, the minute he gets into his apartment. He checks all the locks on the front door, makes sure the blinds for the windows are turned down, curtains concealing everything. Winston jumps on the furniture and watches all of this take place, his tongue lolling from the rushed walk home. While all the panic has left Winston, run out of his system, it only doubles in Will.

The evening drags by with him insisting his heart to be still, joining Winston on the bed and settling down to watch shitty movies that don’t hold his attention for more than a few minutes at a time. He tries his hand at homework, but decides to say _fuck it_ and shove it aside. He shoves everything under a stack of books, hoping this will somehow hide it from his sight and therefore keep it out of mind.

It’s dumb.

He drinks slow, sobering up several times before he finds a happy, continuous, fuzzy medium. There’s still plenty remaining in the bottle by the time it’s dark outside, and that is when he breaks and fumbles with his phone, holding it up to his ear to listen to the repetitive ring.

It’s a Sunday night. He already wasted enough time, kept them both from doing what they needed to get done. This is so desperate. All the same, he doesn’t hang up, and after a small wait he is rewarded with the soothing, rumbling voice he craves. Like distant thunder rolling over the mountains.

“Hello, Will.”

“Hi,” he breathes, and a sense of relief finally washes over him. He’s drenched in reassurance.

Silence.

Shit. It would appear he didn’t think this through. He can’t find anything to say. Hannibal gives him a gracious amount of time to compose himself, and it still isn’t quite enough.

His tongue feels heavy, but he manages to come up with something, and makes it sound at least halfway believable. “I, uh, I’m just calling because. I offered to. This morning. Before I left.”

He can hear the smile in Hannibal’s relaxed response, in the tone he reserves only for Will, as far as Will can gather. “I’m grateful that you have, it’s always nice to hear your voice.”

_Don’t do it. Focus on something else. You have class tomorrow, and he probably does too. Don’t. Do it._

“I need you.”

There is a lengthy pause, where neither of them say anything, and Will regrets all the life choices that have led up to this very moment. Dramatic, perhaps, but he is properly drunk. He opens his mouth to utter an apology, but is interrupted.

“Of course, Will.”

Not even a hint of exasperation, just mild fondness. 

_Hurry. Please._

“Thank you,” Will mumbles quietly, rubbing at his face and fidgeting long after he ends the call. Still gripping the phone tight.

Today was too much.

It started in Hannibal’s arms (or he in his), and it’s only fitting that it ends in a similar fashion.  

He wants to be clutched tight, wants to be embraced, so much so that he is shockingly dismissive about the state of his apartment. It can’t be that bad. He is inclined to pretend it isn’t, for the time being. His mind is too muddy and confused, tainted by alcohol. More than likely, if he made an effort to clean in this state, it would only result in more of a mess.

But he ends up trying anyway, for Hannibal’s sake.

Winston follows him around, all too aware of Will’s lack of balance, though they are both helpless to do anything about it. Will can feel a cold nose poking the back of his legs each time he sways a little too hard, or drops something. “I’m fine, Winston, I’m fine,” he insists, waving him away. It’s a feeble attempt. The dog is glued to him.

He should really stop drinking now, but he sips from his glass out of habit while stuffing books back on their respective shelves (and knocking others over in the process).

_‘I need you.’ Really? Be a little more pathetic next time, Graham, why don’t you. What are you going to do with him, then? What is it you ‘need’ him for?_

He hasn’t figured that one out yet.

An abrupt knock on his door makes him flinch, bringing him back to the present moment and out of his head. That was fast. How long has he been standing here? He _must_ stop drinking. He sets the glass down on the shelf, and briefly worries that he might pass out before he can even get to the door, and how embarrassing would that be, having to be taken care of yet again?

Or maybe not so embarrassing. Maybe enjoyable.

Will takes in a deep breath, noting the shakiness in his limbs. It would be easy to blame it on his intoxication, but the truth is he just wants to be held, and now he can be. Finally. _God damn, I missed you._

All too trusting, without checking through the window, he opens the door. A low growl erupts from Winston.

Standing outside, quick to force a foot in the doorway and shove Will at least a foot back into his own home, is Abel Gideon. Highly animated, eyebrows high and eyes somewhat wide, giving Will the best smile he can muster.

“Hello, little pup. Mind if I come in?”

Weak and shivering from sudden cold, and now mute, Will can’t do anything, only watch as Abel makes his way inside and politely shuts the door behind him. He stares around the front room, taking it all in, inquisitive and completely ignorant to Will’s frozen terror, and the growling dog pressing against Will’s leg.

 _I’m gonna throw up._ “You should leave,” Will says, stuttering a bit at first, only finding his courage because of his drunkenness. Just like the last time. “Hannibal is going to be here soon.” _Oh, Christ. ‘My boyfriend is on his way!’ He’ll never fall for that, even if it’s true. Get him out. Now._

Abel plops himself down heavily into an old armchair. He taps his fingers against it, utterly pleasant, and looks up at Will in unfazed delight. He tilts his head to one side in contemplation. “Let’s wait for him, then. Shall we?”

 


	15. Chapter 15

His skin crawls at the sight of the man in front of him, fouling the place with his overbearing presence, tainting everything that was once considered safe territory. Will is suddenly filled to the brim with disgust, his stomach twisting in knots, although that might be the whiskey. Whatever it may be, it’s boiling inside him, threatening to spill over and create one hell of a mess. With the world still spinning, he plants his feet firmly on the ground and his hands become fists at his sides. The swaying can’t be helped, but he does not stumble. He refuses to.

A deep breath forces his heart to steady itself, and he hushes Winston’s deep growl with a reassuring nudge.

_Get out._

It isn’t a plea with himself to run. It’s a demand for his adversary. Not worth saying aloud, because there isn’t a chance in hell that he would comply, but Will is compelled to take a step nevertheless. His eyes dart around the room for a possible weapon. The glass Jack Daniels bottle glints in the dim lamp light, beckoning him over from where it sits abandoned on a counter’s edge in the kitchen. If everything goes to shit, he could just smash him over the head with it.

That is, if his ridiculously drunk ass could get there in time. Not very likely.

Shooting Abel a look of disdain, Will maneuvers his way around the armchair and closer to the cramped kitchen area. He takes special care to protect himself, refusing to tear his gaze away from Abel’s general direction if he can help it. Abel remains where he is, entirely unbothered, throwing one leg over the other and checking the watch around his wrist. Making himself at home. He licks his lips in thought, opening his mouth for a time before anything manages to come out, all of it laboriously constructed.

“Looks like you didn’t take my advice,” he says, his eyes landing squarely on Will. As blue as his own, but much, much emptier. “I told you to run. Do you remember?”

_‘Don't get me wrong, I’m curious to see what happens, but fair warning, and all that. Run while you can. You’re welcome.’_

It feels like so long ago.

Winston lets out a sharp, short bark from where he has decided to sit, near the front door. The fur on the back of his neck bristles, his muzzle wrinkled with the threat of an oncoming snarl. He keeps his back to the wall, his tail low. His unusually aggressive behavior only proves to Will that Abel is in fact dangerous. He trusts Winston’s judgement better than his own.

Fuck what Matt said. He’s wrong.

“Instead,” Abel continues, taking his time with his usual, slow manner of speaking. “You’ve decided to embrace whatever this…” His head dips down. He throws his hands up, fingers outstretched, his shoulders hinting at a shrug. “Is.”

When Will responds, his voice only holds the slightest bit of a tremor, but it does come out hoarse. It corrects itself over time, gaining strength with his growing courage. “I think you couldn’t care less about what happens to me, Abel.”

“You don’t have much faith in your fellow man,” Abel says, but he appears to have lost interest, turning his head away to focus on something else. Gradually, Will eases himself back to lean against the dishwasher, side-eying the glass bottle just in arm’s reach. He could grab it now if he had to.

“Why am I such a threat to you?” he asks, because he is. That’s what this is. It’s childish possessiveness. _I have something you want. I took it from you._

“Threat? You’re not a threat, Will Graham.” Abel cracks an amused smile at the notion, and begins tapping his fingers restlessly against the arms of the chair once again. It betrays his inner frustration. “You’re completely wasted, as you tend to be.”

“Or you just like to take advantage as much as possible.”

Abel raises a brow, narrows his eyes. “I may have a habit of showing up places unannounced, but I am not a stalker. You just happen to be drinking whenever we meet as of late. You may want to get some help for that. Should I be worried?”

“How do you know where I live?” Will rests his hands on his thighs, and feels the hard outline of his phone inside a pocket. It doesn’t vibrate, it hasn’t in the last several minutes, unless he’s missed it. He considers taking it out, but what would he do? He might as well have invited Abel inside with open arms. He never slammed the door in his face. He hardly protested. He could still tell him to leave now. He just knows it won’t make a difference if he does.

“I have a habit of being nosey. It wasn’t too hard. You’re attached to Hannibal at the hip, lately, aren’t you? Yes, I thought so. You don’t have to say anything. All one must do is look for him, and there you will inevitably be.”

“What the fuck do you want, then?” Will moves his hands behind his back, holds to the edge of the counter to keep himself steady. His grip tightens and his fingers cramp when Abel disentangles himself and rises from the chair, prowling through the front room on light feet that barely make a sound.

Will makes a mental note to have Hannibal teach him how to do that, since apparently every-fucking-body else can.

His train of thought is blurry and slipping, even further now that Abel appears to be heading his direction. He stubbornly stands his ground, even though every bone in his body screams for him to run away, and fast. His fingers slide along the counter, feeling for the glass bottle. One of his knuckles brushes against it. Abel comes to a complete stop a couple of feet away, catching on. Smiling, he regards Will with an expression of innocent amusement.

“I’m just curious.”

“Curious about what?” It spills out of his mouth in a rush. His tongue is still numb, and it’s hard to breathe. He’s been cornered by Abel Gideon in his own home, too drunk to protect himself, and he is alone.

Winston starts barking, inching closer to them but keeping a fair distance, as well as making high-pitched whining noises in between woofs. Will whistles weakly, and with some time, Winston becomes relatively quiet. He’s restless, stepping forward only to step back again, frantic and anxious over the stranger in their home.

“Good doggy.” Abel sounds impressed.

“Curious about _what?_ ” Will repeats, hissing.

“What makes you so damn special?” Another well-meaning smile.

Will is silent, and then he abruptly bursts into mad laughter, visibly taking Abel by surprise, until tears form in the corners of his eyes and he must cross his arms over his stomach to contain the faint pain of his muscles. It happens so soon, and unexpectedly so. All his fear melts away, at least for the time being. His impulses are running wild.

“That’s too good,” he gasps, choking for an embarrassing couple of seconds before he clears his throat. “You’re asking the wrong person, Abel,” he says, taking in a deep breath of cool air that puts him at ease. “I don’t have a _fucking_ clue. That’s something you should ask Hannibal.”

Abel’s confident, fluid outer shell starts to crack. “You’re assuming I haven’t tried.”

“I can’t help you, then.” Will forces a reflective smile, only to feel small again when Abel leans closer. His newfound bravery evaporates the longer Abel stares at him. He is absolutely smoldering, fighting to remain composed, on the very verge of losing his temper.

“You really have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?” Abel asks, tilting his head and squinting as he examines every inch of Will’s face, or so it would seem. A shiver rolls down Will’s spine and he holds his breath until his lungs ache. His fingers brush against the glass bottle once more. He isn’t sure what to do. _Don’t panic._ Above all.

“Do you not question any of this, at all? Will...” Abel raises his thin eyebrows, looks up at him with disapproval. He shakes his head and lays a hand on Will’s shoulder, who tenses. It’s the exact arm that he was using to reach for the bottle, now incapacitated. “Come now. You know. What you don’t know, is anything about any of us. That much is clear to me, or you would be dead.”

“Dead?” Will echoes, unblinking. Did he hear that correctly?

“Dead. Do you think there is any sincerity in his interest? I may be ill and often confused, but I’m not stupid, no. I would like to give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you aren’t, either. Hannibal likes to play games. You, Will, are a new favorite.”

 _Play games?_ he wants to ask, but his mouth stays sewed shut.

“A new toy. You’re a replacement, something fun to do in his free time.”

“And…you’re saying you’re the old one?” he ventures skeptically.

“He has several discarded projects.”

“You’re still being vague,” Will mutters, eyes flitting all about the room. Starting to feel funny.

“Because I would like to live. I should hope you might figure it out on your own.”

“Why even tell me anything?”

“Curiosity.” Abel gives him another smile. “You’ll pick that up from him as well.”

Will furrows his brow, opening his mouth to come up with some sort of retort, but nothing comes out. He shrugs out of Abel’s grasp, throwing out an arm to push him back, only to be grabbed by the wrists before he can manage it. He curls his lip, trying to sneer, but it probably just looks like he’s in pain. He is. “Go take your meds,” he spits. _Get out of my apartment. Leave me alone._

“You knew we were all a little odd,” Abel says, giving Will’s wrist a quick squeeze. “Did you expect any different? Did you forget where you met us? You can’t play with the big boys and cry when someone pushes you down. Did your father never tell you?”

“Get out.”

“Should we continue this conversation when you are without an influence? I would like to speak to the sober Will Graham sometime. Imagine what we could get accomplished. In all seriousness, it may come as a surprise, but my intentions are good. It’s in your best interest to listen to me. If not, well…I can’t help you.”

“Don’t touch me, and get out.”

“You can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”

He doesn’t hear the door open at first, mostly because he’s starting to overload. Sights, sounds, smells, it’s all too much. _Don’t touch me._ He imagines ripping himself away and picking up the glass bottle with intent to maim. He’s feeling trapped, fenced in, too far from an escape, with too many obstacles in the way. Cornered. He could swear his head is ringing, too loud for him to understand the scrambled words that fall from Abel’s mouth. Black dots cloud his eyes, and he silently curses himself. For drinking, for answering the door, for not punching him in his face already, and not giving Winston the chance to bite him. For all of it.

He’s going to do it. On a whim, he tears his arms out of Abel’s grip, snatches up the bottle, only for reality to crash down on him like a wave when Abel steps away, raising his palms as if to say “No need for that!” But his attention isn’t on Will, and he doesn’t look all that worried. His attention is fixed on the doorway, and he’s speaking. It takes a minute for Will to refocus. Winston’s been barking. The neighbors are going to complain, for sure. _I’m worried about that?_

“It’s rude not to knock,” Abel says playfully, brightening at the new company. “I did that much, at least. Didn’t I, Will?”

Will follows his line of vision and finds the familiar maroon eyes of the newcomer, who stands in the middle of his living room and blocks the front door. Clicked shut. Hannibal doesn’t spare him a single glance, fixed entirely on Abel, his expression blank and unreadable. Focused.

“How embarrassing.” Abel dons a dramatized look of humiliation. He abandons Will, who fights to stay upright and not immediately collapse on the floor in relief. “Glad to see you, I was just about to be on my way, and I would have felt terrible leaving Will here on his own in such a state. You should be thanking me for taking care of him,” he adds, stopping short only inches away from Hannibal, who remains rooted to the floor and gives Abel a small smile as if he finds all of this mildly funny. Abel hesitates, which is quite a satisfying sight.

“I would like to have a word with you privately, Abel,” Hannibal says at last, his voice even. Not a hint of emotion to betray his intentions. His tone is painfully polite, hands shoved in his coat pockets, hair windswept. He looks more irritated with the cold weather than he is with Abel. Despite it all, that only convinces Will further that Hannibal is actually furious, but is too elegant to show it.

 _Fucking peacock_ , Will thinks with severe exasperation, setting the Jack Daniels bottle down quietly behind him.

“See you around, Will,” Abel says with a little wave. In a blur the two of them are outside, the front door pulled shut by an angry wind. Will is left completely alone. In a rush, he slides to the floor and stretches his legs out, leans his head back. He is interrupted only by Winston, who comes running to lick at his hands and face in silence. The sensation grounds him.

“Good dog,” he says tiredly.  

The chill in his blood turns into warmth. He threads his fingers through Winston’s fur, soft to the touch. It slowly wakes him up. He heaves himself to his feet with a grunt and stumbles over to the window, pulling back the curtain and peeking through the blinds. He searches the dark parking lot until he finds Abel at what (he assumes) must be his car, and commits the details to memory. His throat burns and the whiskey on his tongue is starting to taste disgusting.

Hannibal has followed Abel to it and is perfectly still, speaking in an obviously controlled manner while Abel appears to become increasingly agitated as the moments pass. Will can’t hear a thing, and as much as his interest has piqued, he just can’t find the strength to go out there. Abel paces back, appearing to be trying his best to keep his composure. It’s failing horribly. He stresses and lingers too long on his hand gestures, and the way he shows his teeth tells Will he is speaking too slowly, deliberately.

Although he might not be doing much to incite this sort of response, Hannibal isn’t attempting to calm him, either.

Will throws a look over his shoulder to check on Winston, who refuses to stray too far away. He jerks his head back to the scene in the parking lot when the muffled sound of breaking glass catches his attention. Abel has punched through the glass window of his own vehicle, or has at least tried to. He straightens, turning around to face Hannibal again. He appears to be perfectly fine after the outburst, as if it drained out of his system through his fist, and that was that.

Backing away, Will gives into the temptation to sit in the very chair Abel had just occupied. Nothing’s changed, there is no discernable difference. All the negative energy in his home has left with Abel, and that in and of itself is a miracle. Perhaps he’s had a breakthrough. The typical level of anxiousness that follows him around like a shadow is now easily ignored. That settles it. _I’ll file a restraining order. Maybe I’ll file one for Matt while I’m at it._ As if it would deter them, he realizes, too late. He’s right. It wouldn’t.

His eyes close, while Winston nudges at his feet and promptly lies on top of them. His weight is a welcome comfort, lulling Will into a false sense of security. He tries to conveniently forget the ‘false’ part, and allows it to provide him with a feeling of safeness. That, and Hannibal is currently acting as a barrier between him and Abel, possibly telling him off at the very moment. He wonders what is being said. _I can’t imagine him doing anything beyond how a parent might scorn a child._ Maybe it’s just as well. Abel is childish.

 _I was going to hit him_. He is realizing that he was well on his way to doing so before Hannibal arrived. _I’ve never hit anyone before._ But that didn’t really matter at the time. He still can’t bring himself to feel shock at his almost-actions. It’s not like he deserves to feel bad about it. But it is out of character.

_Well, I’m an unpredictable drunk._

A series of small knocks on the door. Is it even locked?

Will pushes himself up, much to Winston’s dismay. He nearly opens it up right away, and must correct himself. _What did we learn?_ He feels stupid, but he complies with his common sense and looks through the window first before turning the knob. It takes a couple of tries and a great deal of unbroken concentration before he can successfully grasp it.

Neither of them speak until the door is shut, properly locked, and Will meets his gaze. It consumes him.

“I trust you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself,” Hannibal begins carefully, slow, “But I am still glad that I came. May I ask why he was inside?” Now he does sound irritable, to Will’s disappointment. He knows exactly how Abel managed to weasel his way into Will’s apartment. His nose is scrunched up, just barely, enough to convince Will that he smells the whiskey and has pieced two and two together.

Not fair.

“I thought it was you,” Will mumbles in his defense, as weak as it is. _How was I supposed to figure a psycho would be standing at my door?_ His head is still fuzzy, and it fuels his growing indignation. It shouldn’t be his fault. “You took your sweet time getting here. I had to listen to him ramble on and on, I would have rather he attacked me and gotten it over with than hear another word.”

Before Will can feel bad about what he’s said, Hannibal regards him with a more delicate expression, one of concern rather than annoyance. His resigned sigh propels Will forward. He wraps his arms tight around Hannibal, and doesn’t have to wait long for the gesture to be returned. With enthusiasm.

“Are you all right?”

Will flushes, his cheek brushing against the sharper bones in Hannibal’s face. “I’m fine. Thank you for coming.” _I still need you._

Smothering his face in the fabric of Hannibal’s coat, Will inhales deeply, exhaling when he is pulled close and a chin rests on the top of his head. He can feel a warm mouth trailing through the thick curls over his skull and he hopes he doesn’t smell too horrible, alcohol aside.

He goes stiff, a stray thought coming to him just before it’s confirmed. He can hear sniffing. It’s not Winston.

“You smell like smoke,” Hannibal notes curiously.

“I met a friend earlier.” _Please don’t say anything else about it. I can’t right now._

Winston, his savior, gleefully interrupts their reunion and pushes himself between their bodies. He forces a gap wide enough for himself, and Will takes a small step back, although he still grips the sleeves of Hannibal’s coat. Both peer down at the dog, whose ears droop submissively in response.

Will begrudgingly releases Hannibal when Winston stands on his hind legs and places his own front paws on Hannibal’s chest. It’s terribly bad behavior to be encouraging, for a dog who tends to have excellent manners, but Will is too busy being appalled. _Traitor._

If Hannibal disapproves, he keeps it to himself, quietly providing Winston with enough attention to send the dog’s tail into a fit.

 


	16. Chapter 16

_“I met a friend earlier."_

Will Graham might be withholding information, but it’s no use digging deeper. Not while he’s feeling so overwhelmed, possibly even fragile. He _does_ look fragile. Small and clinging to Hannibal like a child, weak, swaying and intoxicated as he so often is. His dark curls a wild mess, naturally unkempt. Pale skin, unmarked. Just a delicate flower in the wind, bent at an awkward angle thanks to the brutality of the weather. It’s all too common to find him like this. On some distant, removed level, this is worrisome. Perhaps he should be spoken to.

Will does not take particularly good care of himself, and there is no one else here to do it for him.

Besides Hannibal. His curiosity must be sated with Will’s rather curt explanation for the time being. _A friend._ Will has never smelled like cigarettes before tonight, nor has he ever revealed that very telling look in his eye. The look of guilt. Desperate to gloss over the subject, to leave it behind. It’s such an obvious lie. So be it. It can wait.

Will seems as though he might pass out at any moment, quickly reaching to grab further up Hannibal’s arm in an attempt to steady himself. He nearly misses and grasps at great deal of fabric more than he needed, pulling too hard. It’s miraculous that it doesn’t tear. Winston quickly escapes, wriggling his way out from in between them as Will closes the gap, stumbling and even stepping lightly on Hannibal’s shoes. Will doesn’t notice. It’s all accidental, of course.

A small twinge of alarm for his wardrobe causes Hannibal to open his mouth, but in the end he swallows his complaint whole and decides to let it slide.

A dangerous habit, which has been forming for a while. He knows it. Promptly ignores it, in favor of the clumsy young man attached to him.

 “Come,” he says instead of scolding him, leading Will to sit in one of the old-looking armchairs. Hannibal tries to avoid imagining where it came from, but fails. Second-hand, no doubt about it, but most likely not acquired from any sort of a reputable store. No telling where it’s been. Will would do well to invest in new furniture.

“You don’t have to look so judgmental,” Will mumbles unhappily, filtering into his thoughts. He caught him.

Hannibal inclines his head toward his drunk companion, attempting to look regretful. “Apologies.” Then, perhaps too forward, “Did he touch you?”

“Did he what?” Will’s eyes go wide. Not direct enough, apparently.

When he speaks, he stresses the words. Not to be rude, but because Will needs it in this state. “Did Abel Gideon harm you?”

Will blinks. “Oh.” He shakes his head, and the motion is greatly exaggerated. His skull must feel heavy by now. He slumps forward and rests it in his hands, unresponsive to Winston who wanders over and noses at his face curiously. Concerned, or as concerned as a dog can be. It would appear this one has a great capacity for it.

Hannibal turns on his heel, slowly, glancing around the front half of the apartment even though he’s been here before. It was not so long ago. Things have fallen into disorder, or rather, slightly more disorder than they had first been in. He has a sudden urge to clean, but he roots himself to the floor and shoves his hands inside his coat pockets to relieve that urge. Will wouldn’t appreciate the implication.

His eyes stray to the open kitchen, lastly to the bottle he had witnessed Will pick up and aim to bash Gideon over the head. Before Hannibal’s intrusion was apparent. He had witnessed most of that, and he had assessed the situation. Now almost he wishes he hadn’t. If he had only come a moment later, perhaps things would have ended differently. No one could have said Abel didn’t have it coming.  

“Would you have done it?” he asks, without tearing his gaze away from the imagined outcome.

“What? Oh. You saw that.” Will sounds deflated, close to embarrassed.

“I did.” Hannibal makes no attempt to soothe him, to tell him that it would have been fine in his book if he had done it.

“I don’t know.”

Hannibal is quiet. Will does know, or he did. The intentions in his face had been clear, broadcast from across the room for Hannibal to see, but Abel had moved out of the way in time for Will to second-guess himself. The very moment he realized they were no longer alone. Hannibal shoots the bottle a look of faint disapproval for not carrying out the deed itself.

 

* * *

 

_Walking Abel to his car is honestly not worth withstanding the piercing wind or the freezing temperature, but for Will’s sake, Hannibal will endure it. Will would be relieved to know Abel had most definitely left the premises, been seen leaving it._

_Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a pair of blue eyes from behind the curtains of the apartment, peeking sneakily through the blinds. Paying it no mind, and knowing that they will not be overheard, Hannibal finally turns his attention to Abel, who fumbles around with the door handle of his car but has no intention of opening it just yet._

_“You shouldn’t be paying Will Graham unexpected visits. I advise you against it, before it becomes serious.”_

_Abel laughs at that, blowing out a puff of air and pocketing his hands. He is not in the least bit amused, with his tense shoulders and his teeth grinding noisily, mouth made into a straight thin line. “I thought this was what you_ wanted _me to do.”_

_“I’ve never suggested such a thing. In fact, I’ve insisted on the opposite.”_

_“You wouldn’t_ say _it,” Abel spits, curling his lip. He smiles anyway. “Only plant the idea, perhaps water it occasionally, see if it grows. What it turns into. Wonder how long it will take Will Graham to spring up out of the ground? Wonder what he’ll do?”_

_Hannibal calmly observes the restless shifting from foot to foot, the way Abel resembles an unnerved, caged animal. He tilts his head to one side, narrows his eyes just slightly. “What is it you are planning with Matthew Brown?” He knows very well. It’s Abel being childish._

_At this, Abel’s grin widens, all teeth and discomfort. His agitation is growing. “I’m just passing on the knowledge of what you taught me.”_

_“Your attempt at manipulating him will most likely backfire.”_

_“Yet, you aren’t_ really _complaining, not even threatening me.”_

_“I would never threaten you, Abel.”_

_“Directly, no,” Abel says, taking a step to the side, only to appear confused and step in another direction to see if that satisfies him better. “You instruct me to leave him alone, you outright ignore my existence ever since you met him, and when I become an actual threat you have little more to say than ‘this is a bad idea, Abel.’”_

_“And here you are of your own accord, determined to cause a fuss.”_

_“Yes, here I am.” His voice drops down to a whisper. “Whatever it is you want him to be, I can be it. If you would give me a chance. Tell me what to do.”_

_Hannibal looks him up and down, taking his time, but there is nothing to consider. “No.”_

_The inner turmoil boiling inside Abel is fun to watch, but he’s losing interest and it’s cold outside. Abel senses this, his pacing leading him back to stand directly in front of Hannibal and stare up into his face with a look of pure resentment. Then, he throws his arms out, gives a hearty laugh, and turns to harshly connect his knuckles with the window of his own car. There is a sickening crunch and a crack that follows, and his fist comes away bloody. It will turn blue._

_“I’ll see you,” he sighs after a moment, seeming only somewhat discouraged._

 

* * *

 

Catching himself nearly _pouting_ , or at the very least lost in his thoughts, Hannibal proceeds into the kitchen and shakes off his disappointment by fetching Will a glass of water. At his return, Will straightens, darkness forming under eyes that are half-lidded and a very dull blue. Exhausted. He takes the glass with a grateful nod. Winston is somehow aware that he has been relieved of his duties, and disappears into the bedroom, the tags on his collar jingling the whole way. Off to sleep in Will’s bed, Hannibal supposes, with some criticism he does not dare voice. It isn’t his home, it isn’t his place to complain.

Not aloud.

Will notices the silent disapproval, regardless. Blowing out his breath and rolling his eyes, he doesn’t comment. Instead he dedicates himself to drinking the water offered to him, starting out tentative and then throwing it back as though he suddenly realizes he’s been parched. His wet lips glisten, and he spills a few drops due to his current lack of motor control. Like falling tears, they stain his throat and travel down beneath his shirt, disappearing only then. No imagination required, he’s seen it before. Commit him to memory.

“You’re staring at me, again.”

Not one to be caught off guard, Hannibal seats himself in the chair opposite Will, an unseemly match, and throws one leg over the other. He pretends to contemplate. “I often do, I thought.”

“You’ve noticed, too, then.”

“If I’m the one doing the staring, then yes, I would imagine I’ve noticed it.”

A genuine laugh escapes Will, who tries to contain it by spreading a hand over his chest, as though he might catch it on its way out. “Don’t give me that look. God, you’re so snarky sometimes. A lot of the time,” he corrects. His words tumble from an untamed mouth, his tongue much too loose. “You just hide it underneath expensive clothes and a pretty face. You’re finicky as hell, too. You grew up a pampered child, didn’t you?”

Hannibal only gives him a smile. “For a short time.”

It gradually dawns on Will, who must have forgotten that the share the sad status of ‘orphan.’ It shows in his face, the way his pupils constrict and his eyebrows furrow as he realizes a possible mistake, and then quietly shames himself for it. Hannibal would assure him that he isn’t offended in the least, but the way Will squirms is so much more entertaining than putting him at ease.

Will chews on his bottom lip, his teeth just visible. It’s a wonder it isn’t always red and puffy. He closes his eyes with a heavy sigh that causes him to greatly diminish in size. Small. There’s that word again. The sound of his breath is sweet, labored by the effects of alcohol. Real and imagined. He appears to be pained by this accidental reminder. It’s interesting; his being bothered by the lack of a mother, and in a way, a father as well, when he had tried so desperately before to convince Hannibal that it was fine.

_“Weren’t you ever lonely?”_

_“I was, I just never realized it until I grew up and knew what loneliness was. It’s hard to differentiate the good from the bad if all you’ve ever known is the bad.”_

It had been surprisingly insightful.

Will is not bothered over his own abandonment, though. This becomes apparent when his eyes open, and he looks at Hannibal in such a way that it can only represent one emotion.

Pity.

He doesn’t appreciate it. He rarely does. He shifts in his seat, uncrosses his legs, and hopes to kill it before it can grow. He doesn’t get a single word out before Will has leaned forward and starts tripping over himself to apologize.

“I’m sorry,” Will says, too loud, running a hand over his face and through the curls on his head. He sets the glass of water aside, appears to be considering his options, moving to the very edge of his chair. His limbs should be too weak. “It’s been a long day. I didn’t think about what I said. I only meant to tease.”

“I understand,” Hannibal assures him, honest. “Please know that I didn’t take offense to it.”

Relief floods Will’s face, but he doesn’t appear to be wholly satisfied with the claim. “I mean it.”

“I know, Will.”

“I know you know,” Will says pointedly, rising to unsteady feet, throwing out a hand and pointing a stern finger in Hannibal’s line of vision before he can protest or offer his services. “Stay there. Don’t move.” Half stumbling, half falling, he pulls himself away from his chair and pushes toward Hannibal’s.

Hands rest tight and forceful on Hannibal’s shoulders; hungry blue eyes consume the dark red of his own. The colors must clash like lightning in an open field. Will certainly radiates electricity. He sinks down into Hannibal’s lap, heavier than before, though this isn’t his fault. He has little control over his movements. His head is difficult to keep raised, and so he rests his forehead against Hannibal’s, their noses just brushing.

Something akin to affection causes Hannibal to soften.

This could be an extended apology, and Hannibal could refuse it, would like to if that’s the case. If it isn’t, he’s happy, more than happy, to have Will back in his arms after what has seemed like an eternity but has only been hours. He decides he would prefer not to ask.

Will’s mouth seeks out his own, and he tastes delicious, even with the bitter ghost of alcohol coating the inside. Hannibal makes it a point to replace it with himself, responding warmly. His enthusiasm urges Will, who needs very little encouragement, to continue. Will’s scent floods his nostrils. He smells like pine, like dog, and a default cologne, and finally, his natural scent lies underneath it all. Entirely _Will_. Except for one thing. Still, there is a trace of smoke.

He would like to smother it, make it disappear by ravishing Will completely until he only smells like Hannibal. Nothing else.

A strange and foreign impulse.

“I’m sorry,” Will is saying again, although he is sounding less so as time passes and his tongue is caressed and savored by another.

 

* * *

 

Everything feels quiet. Heart drumming against his chest, his body weighted down, brain slow and almost numb. It’s pleasant, otherworldly, and he can only hope he will remember feeling like this tomorrow, when his head aches and his muscles cry out and his stomach twists in on itself as though it’s been stabbed. He can feel a hand coming to rest against his cheek, fingers stroking skin lovingly. _Lovingly._ His lips tingle each time a kiss is broken, and it feels lonesome in the few seconds before he receives another.

Will might fall asleep here, on top of him, but that would be foolish, not to mention selfish.

He asks to be helped to bed, and isn’t prepared when he is lifted almost in his entirety. He isn’t that drunk, not anymore. It’s worn off, leaving him only with a sense of intense exhaustion and a buzz. It could be battled, but that would require caring enough to fight it. It’s been a long fucking day.

Soft fabric comes up to greet him, and then his dog, who he reluctantly manages to lightly push aside to make more space for himself. Winston abandons the bed, almost haughtily, having been driven from room to room and now he’s finally gotten frustrated and given up. Taking the opportunity, Will instructs Hannibal to close the door. Just for now.

In truth, he doesn’t expect to be joined, not while his blankets must be covered in endless amounts of dog hair and probably are a little (or a lot) overdue for a good washing. He is overjoyed, to say the least, when he feels the mattress sink lower next to him, and turns his head to meet the maroon waves threatening to pull him under. Waves of crimson. Color of blood. Have they always been this mesmerizing?

The lights are out, their bodies illuminated only by the small amount leaking in from underneath the door, and what manages to make it past his curtains. Halos of silver and gold make up their outlines.

“What happened to your family?”

If it strikes a nerve, if Will has gone too far, Hannibal doesn’t show it. Rather, the sharp features of his face soften, if only slightly, and only for a moment. After that, he seems to be considering how to answer Will’s invasive question. Will himself opens his mouth to apologize, again, to brush it off, ask him to pretend he never asked, but he can’t.

Hannibal is pensive, not affronted, and Will does want to know. He’s never asked before, and the information was never offered up to him freely. The lack of emotion in the response makes him think it must not be too bad.

He is very wrong.

With a straight face, “My family was butchered.”

It takes a while to register. Will furrows his brow, studies the unchanging expression and the relaxed way Hannibal drags his eyes away from Will and somewhere else, seeing something else, but stays calm. For a brief time, he almost thinks he’s been told a sick joke, and then the reality, the weight of the explanation, sets in. He feels cold, all the warmth of the alcohol from earlier drained out of him, like spilled blood. He feels empty.

“Will.”

He lifts his head, unaware that his eyes had drifted to a bare space on the wall. How long? Hannibal regards him fondly, as though Will is just a child with a wandering mind, and he did not just confess in him one of the darkest things Will has ever heard.  

A sound finally crawls out of Will’s throat. “Oh.” He licks his lips, gulps down some air. Lacking in vocabulary, and hoping it will return to him over time. “That’s.” Horrible? Tragic? Disturbing? Outlandish? It’s a lifechanging, traumatic thing, worse than anything Will could have imagined experiencing. He had thought an accident, perhaps, or something of that nature. Sickness. Not…

“I don’t expect you to say anything,” Hannibal says, his face searching Will’s. Curious. How can he be curious? Is he in denial? Will is more upset than he is. He must be. “I’m only answering your question. I don’t require any specific response from you.”

_I don’t require any specific response from you._

Will blinks several times, and because it’s the only thing he can think to do, he moves closer.

“I only ask that you don’t pity me.” Warning.

_Hannibal. How can I not?_

“I would appreciate it.”

Will chews on the inside of his mouth. Gives what could be a shadow of a nod, before pressing against him and hiding his face in clothes. Enveloped in the scent that is purely him, and now holds traces of Will. A drastic mixing that should be confusing, but instead brings him comfort. He takes a deep breath, reveling in the nearness of him, and wonders at what he’s been told. Hands run up and down his arms, experimentally, and he allows it.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so blunt.”

“No. It’s a lot to take in. That’s all.” Will reaches out, somehow managing to tangle their limbs while blinded. “Is it too much to ask what happened?”

“Not at all, though I wonder if it should wait for another day. You’ve been overwhelmed enough.”

“You act as if it happened to me and not you.”

“I’ve had plenty of time to come to terms with it.”

It would seem so.

_Have you, though? Can you?_

Will tugs at his coat until Hannibal silently agrees to shrug it off, interrupted before he can place it neatly aside by a hot mouth traveling along his jaw. _This is a bit fucked_ , Will thinks, but he makes no attempt to stop, and he isn’t discouraged or pushed aside. Instead, a hand slides around his hip, to the small of his back, and comes down to rest against the curve of his backside.

Will blanches at the very forward gesture, and yet instinctively he arches and presses further into the grip. His face is warm again. Hannibal hauls him closer as his teeth graze Hannibal’s throat. It’s new. It has only ever been done to him, and he has struggled with returning favors until now. Now it feels too easy.

He busies himself with licking at smooth, closely shaven skin. He should have expected him to taste as good as he smells. “What happened?” he ventures, before he returns to lightly biting the neck laid out before him like a dinner table. Hannibal flinches, a surprise to Will, but doesn’t make to move away. Is he enjoying this? Will has never seen him so responsive. What’s changed?

_You’re making yourself vulnerable to me._

No more deflection, no more stoic and impenetrable Hannibal. What a thought. Yet, he still feels like stone, still looks like he’s been carved out of solid marble.

“I have a hard time remembering, exactly.”

Will moves his mouth into Hannibal’s collarbone, yanking and stretching his shirt. No regard for the amount it must have cost, and that he’s surely ruining it. Hannibal doesn’t mind, either, if the shiver under Will’s lips tells him anything.

This is exciting. _Show me more._

Without prompting, “I had a mother and father, and my sister.”

Will hesitates, pressing his lips against hard bone and muscle, just listening.

“Her name was Mischa.”

The way he says her name truly makes Will’s heart hurt. It’s a sorrowful pang that reverberates throughout his entire body. He can empathize with it. He was not prepared to hear that level of sadness in his tone, or much of anything, really. It’s not heartbroken, or even bitter, but simply just sad. Distant. And it still invokes such an intense feeling that for a fleeting, ridiculous, _terrible_ moment, Will is envious.

_I want to see you. More of you._

_I want you to see me._

Laying a finger against Hannibal’s mouth to command silence, Will takes the time to undress them both.

 


	17. Chapter 17

_See me._

Will trembles all over from sheer nervousness and excitement, all of it mixed together and difficult to pick apart, with spare bits of terror sprinkled here and there. The effects of the whiskey have all but worn off entirely; this overwhelming sense of vulnerability, of tenderness, is all him. Expertly coaxed out of him, as kind as the soft kisses being stolen from his mouth. It feels tentative and fragile, and not entirely for his own sake.

A meaning as deep as this, the promise behind it, a mystery in the dark he might be brave enough to discover, someday, soon. Feeding off it. It sustains him. He’s drinking it in and swallowing as though it is as precious as the oxygen he breathes. It fills his belly and warms his soul.

In the dark, he sheds his clothes, layer by layer. He stops only to aid the removal of Hannibal’s clothes as well. He spends the first few minutes adjusting to the exposure and inhaling deeply, as though this could inflate his courage as well as his lungs. Stripping himself so bare, it feels like the first time. Fears of judgement flit in and out of his train of thought, only to be put down when every place that scares him is slowly caressed and traced, as though it’s something beautiful, something to be cherished, maybe even worshipped.

No one has ever made him feel like a prince.

“Tell me more,” he whispers, almost too bashful to take in the sight before him. How perfectly Hannibal has been made, whether it be the fault of nature or nurture, but most likely both. Youthful, yet stupidly graceful, as though he has lived well beyond the realistic amount of time he’s spent on this earth. Perhaps, in a way, he has. Will stares down the maroon eyes that peer into the depths of his. They know.

“I’m not sure that would be wise,” Hannibal says delicately, though he reaches out and his hands brush along Will’s cheek, turning it toward his. Will can only blink and look down at his mouth. It wants. His own lips are just as greedy.

_Why?_

Instead of asking, Will takes a breath and dips forward until they are kissing, bare chests touching and arms gradually wrapping around each other. Hands wander unguided, as the only light in the room comes from what manages to pour in through the curtains, and the moon is weak tonight. He feels strong muscles under his fingers, almost putting him to shame, but mostly just tempting. There is no clumsy fumbling about, only a slow exploration followed by reassuring touches. It’s different.

He’s different.

He knows what's being asked of him, through soft palms that trail up and down his thighs and forceful kisses that urge him onto his back. The bed comes up beneath him and he’s carefully laid down. Soft blankets and cushioning greet his spine while his front half is covered by another body, which settles itself between his legs when he makes no complaint. How odd, that it feels so natural. The most natural thing in the world.

_What now?_

It’s something he has panicked over, thought about, even _researched_ and most certainly dreamt about in the past several days. Weeks. As it happens now, as it possibly is about to happen, his mind goes blank and he can’t be bothered to feel alarm.

Brushing noses, mouths connected and bodies melding together bare. He would have expected to be more skittish, if not outright hysterical. Here he is now, practically docile, underneath the beast and offering himself up as tribute. Desperate to be taken as such.

“Not even a little?” he finds himself asking, heaving out a deep breath as lips travel down his throat and rest at his collar, teeth reattaching themselves to old wounds, intending to color them red. His mouth parts open and his eyes close as his skin is pulled taut, threatening to break. Tangling a leg around one of Hannibal’s, bringing them closer. Electricity jolts through his lower stomach. He can feel, in definition, his own arousal and his partner’s, flesh pressing tight and needy against one another and their bellies.  

“Does your mind gravitate so toward the grotesque, even now?” Hannibal sounds mildly fascinated.

Will takes the time to imagine it, remaining silent. Sharp points tickle his neck, then venture back up to his chin and mouth, sucking at his bottom lip and biting until he tastes iron and they share the blood between hasty kisses.  

“Did trauma make you like this?”

“No, Will.”

The weight on top of him grows heavier and heavier, and unable to resist, he arches his back and pushes his hips upward to create more friction. It’s very rewarding. A tongue licks at the blood dripping from his mouth, apologetic, savoring all of it and collecting it like the tears that threaten to fall from the corners of his eyes. He refuses them the privilege.

Fingers drift between them, seeking out his backside and the insides of his thighs, gathering up flesh to knead and squeeze, until his legs fall open further and he can feel the hesitant digits pressing at the entrance. Only experimental, with no weight behind them other than for the sake of adventure. Perhaps to gauge his reaction, and nothing else. All the same, his heart leaps into his chest and hammers against it wildly. _Yes._ _Touch me there._

“I was not made into anything.”

Disappointingly, it leaves, but it returns elsewhere. A hand wraps around the throbbing lengths between them, crushing them together with very little hesitation. Will grinds his teeth and finds himself breathless, assaulted by a hot mouth so insistent that it knocks their teeth together. He’s determined to get his own palm down there, at their waists, and shudders when their fingers touch. Hannibal, ever the teacher, and no doubt the more experienced, guides him to hold them together as well, his hand over Will’s.

Will is not only a modest size, by any means, but he hadn’t expected Hannibal to be so much thicker, and in several definitions of the word, bigger. For a moment, alarm bells do ring through his brain, warning him that should intercourse be an end goal, he should be much more prepared than he is now. Which is, plainly put, not at all. But he isn’t pressed, or asked for more, and something tells him that it will not go that far. It will, soon, and he finds that he very much wants it to, but it won’t be happening tonight.

“I was born the way I am.”

Fears put to rest, he is given a milder version of a kiss, while a thumb smooths over the head of his organ. He tenses all over. Only the most careful touches along his stomach and hips bring him back to relaxing beneath Hannibal. It’s all for naught, the moment fingers grip firm and methodically stroke him. He is leaking an embarrassing amount, and it only makes the massaging easier and even more enjoyable.

 “Will…” Inviting breath in his ear that makes him tremble, and slight amusement. “You’re being quite loud, small one.”

 _Is that what I am?_ he thinks distantly, and eventually comes to the realization that he’s been groaning. _Is that what that was?_ Yes, and he can hear worried scratching at his bedroom door. It’s going to ruin the wood, but oh well. He couldn’t care less. _Winston, I’m fine._

“Sorry,” he murmurs, only half meaning it, and is promptly silenced with lips that dominate his own. His movements are jerky and involuntary, urgent in the hand that holds and binds them. “I need you,” he confesses quietly, barely aware that he made this known far earlier already, via phone call. The spirit of the phrase is hardly any different. This is what he wanted. Wants.  

Much to his surprise, he isn’t the only one unraveling. Expecting Hannibal to be completely dignified and pulled together for something such as _this_ had been a joke, impossible and created only in his ignorant mind. How silly of him. “Tell me again,” comes the reply, teetering between a command and a plea, warm against his cheek as their forms collide.

“I need you.” He makes sure to sound desperate. It isn’t hard.

Hannibal leaves him, suddenly and terribly, everything taken away and forcing Will to shiver in the absence of heat and weight. The bed shifts, and for a second he fears he’s made a bad mistake, misheard, and said something stupid. But arms wrap around his waist and pull him to the edge, eliciting a gasp, and yet another when a hot tongue licks a slow stripe along the shaft of his dick.

That’s more than enough to send him into a temporary coma, but somehow Will stays awake and struggles to lift his head. He wants to see. The sight of soft light hitting that angular face, illuminating himself as well, casting intense shadows that leave so much to the imagination; Will slams his head back into the disheveled blankets and shuts his eyes tight. As if that might help things. Nope.

Imagination is a lovely thing.

Beautiful face, beautiful eyes, beautiful mouth that closes around him and pushes him inside.

“ _Hannibal._ ”

No attention paid to his words anymore, only to the movements of his body. Hands grab his hips and push him down, pin him there, refuse to let him have free reign or even shift an inch while he’s sucked and relished. It’s a bold move, and he can only lie there, reaching down to tangle his fingers in dark brown hair and cling to him like he has no other choice. Does he? If he does, he would rather this. Lewd noises that should shame him only cause the blush on his face to spread. It feels like fever.

Teeth lightly scrape, threatening, but he trusts him, and the touch might as well send him into convulsions. “Please,” he manages to spit out, still blind and so rigid his muscles scream.

“Please what, Will?” He’s audibly abandoned with a disgusting _pop_ , only treated with the smallest of licks and kisses. Almost taken back in, into the hot cave of Hannibal’s mouth, but not quite. His voice would pass as calm, if it weren’t for the smallest tremor in his tone. Nearly imperceptible. He almost gets away with it. “Tell me.”

_Bastard._

“You’re really going to make me beg?” Will snaps sharply, trying to look, but his stomach aches from the effort and he lies back into the covers, his next words are chosen carefully. They sound pathetic, coming out of him, but he feels no guilt over them. “Please. I need it. _You._ ”

“How can I deny you?”

 _You fucking ass,_ Will thinks, but his irritation melts away as lips surround and swallow him whole. Taking a fistful of Hannibal’s hair in his hand and pulling, he uses it to ground himself, as the rest of him floats away into some other realm. It’s too much. Hannibal’s warm tongue, the teeth that gently graze over skin, the wet inside walls of cheeks. Impressively close to the back of his throat. Will’s grip on reality starts to slip.

Count it as one more thing he’s never experienced, that Hannibal has now shown him. He’s learning a lot.

Hands digging into his hips keep Will at bay, but the weight behind them gradually dissipates and fingers smooth coolly over his hot skin. Touches light enough to raise flesh, barely felt, yet felt entirely. _You know exactly what you are doing. Jerk._ Will throws an arm over his face, shielding eyes that see nothing, and releases his hold on Hannibal’s hair (no complaints about that so far, what a champ) to go in search for his hand. Eventually, he finds it and interlaces their fingers.

He’s not going to last.

Lungs screaming for air he can’t gulp down fast enough, his body is tightening all over as if in pain. It is a kind of pain. He wants to ask for release. It’s not what he imagined, it’s better. But as much as he wants it to go on, he simply can’t manage it. Surely Hannibal knows, he must. He’s been completely in tune with Will since they started this. Will’s legs are forced further apart to make more room, and he readily complies. No point in feeling shame now.

The scratching at the door has ceased, replaced by confused whining and an occasional questioning bark. It’s sort of hilarious. Will hardly cares about remaining quiet at this point, with his labored breathing and focus on reaching the sweet end. His neighbors can go fuck themselves, or listen to him getting fucked. He almost laughs at the thought, but he isn’t _that_ hysterical.

Sticky, overheated, and stretched thin, Will squeezes the hand that holds tight to his own in a silent plea for mercy. A pitiful, strangled sound erupts from him when the mouth that pleases him slips down to the base, taking him in his entirety. Other than that, he says nothing, biting down on the inside of his cheek until it tears (he will regret that) and heaving out a heavy sigh as he comes down Hannibal’s throat. His body is wracked, and he drips cold sweat. How disgusting it must be, but whatever. His fingers clench tight on Hannibal’s, white at the knuckles.

All the while, he’s still being stroked and tasted until it’s almost painful, only ending when he manages to mumble (near intelligible) “stop, stop.”

Gracelessly, he sinks deep into the bed, muscles slowly retiring from their stiff state. He breathes through his mouth, attempting to hush himself, but it’s all too obvious that the wind has been knocked out of him. Scrambling to keep Hannibal from being too proud of himself, and embarrassing Will further in the process, is stupid and not worth it. He deserves to be as smug as he likes.  

Weight shifts, and he’s suddenly freezing when the only other body in the room disappears into the adjoining bathroom. The light inside flicks on, and Will shields his eyes. He can hear running water.

 _Washing his mouth out, I bet._ _All that shameless teasing, and he runs to spit._

Will doesn’t mean it. He may not even be right. His brain is picking up all its lost pieces, gluing itself back together, and he’s fighting to hold onto a single thought that isn’t _Jesus Christ that was good, why was that so good?_

Even so, he cannot keep his hands off him. The moment the light switches off and body heat rushes up against him, Hannibal returning to lie beside him, Will turns on his side and wraps his arms around a broad chest. Smothers his face against sparse hair, feels Hannibal’s breath catch. In surprise? Appreciation?

He guesses he should say something. _Dear God, just don’t fucking say ‘thanks.’_

“I liked that,” he mutters lamely, and grimaces at how cold and dull it sounds.

Hannibal noses at the curls on Will’s head, inhaling his scent, and smiles into them. Will imagines they must smell exactly alike now. He must be pleased. “I’m glad. I enjoyed it immensely, Will.”

_I enjoyed it immensely._

Will swallows a gulp of air, choking on his next words. A wave of guilt hits him. Unrelenting waves that tug at him until he gains the courage to voice it. “Did you?”

“I did.”

“But, you didn’t, uh…” Will wets his lips, focusing on the fingertips that trace lazily over his bare back, leaving invisible trails that repeat the motion, imagined. “You know.” He flinches. Stupid, selfish. Also, immature.

Hannibal huffs at that, a quiet amusement that blows against his hair and startles Will temporarily. “I did, Will.”

“Oh.” _Kill me now._ “Okay.” Why hadn’t he noticed? _I was too busy trying to recover from a fucking mind-blowing orgasm._

“You shouldn’t worry yourself with little things.”

“I care if you enjoy yourself, too,” Will insists, feeling increasingly defensive and agitated.

“Will.” _Here we go._ Will shuts his eyes all over again, teeth clamping down together while the fingers that touch him drift to his hips and thighs, and a hand rests against his throat and cups his cheek. It’s achingly sweet, and painfully gentle. His jaw relaxes almost instinctively as a thumb brushes over it. “I would have loved doing this with you, either way.” Not ‘for you,’ but ‘with you.’

A world of difference.

Will did start it, but he hadn’t been able to finish it. Or help out, rather. It weighs on him, but Hannibal’s reassurance is appreciated. When he opens his eyes and pulls back, he can almost forget the whole thing. The color of blood stares back at him, half-lidded, dark hair in disarray from Will’s own careless fingers. Expression of genuine affection. But retaining that look, that very particular look, of a wild animal at rest. Satisfied.

Somehow, he had pulled information out of him, a brief peek into his past, elicited sounds from the beast with his own innocent touch; and that was the last time he touched him properly, without assistance. Instead, he’d been punished for his trouble with a heavy rain of caresses and strokes, too preoccupied with his own pleasure to even attempt giving it himself.

_Why do you refuse to let me touch you? Do you not trust me?_

“You said your family was butchered,” Will says at last, watching carefully for any sign of emotion in his face. A twitch, a tell. But there is nothing. In fact, he seems to drain of life, back into hard stone. Back behind the wall. The veil.

“Interesting,” is all Hannibal replies with, looking anything but interested.

“It isn’t a touchy subject for you,” Will starts, slow. “You’re happy to divulge small bits of things, show me just a little, and you don’t look unnerved at all when you do it. But, maybe that means it _is_ a touchy subject. You were happy for the distraction.”

“Everyone grieves differently.”

That’s true, but there is _nothing_ behind his words. No real conviction. It’s hollow, empty of meaning. Someone has blown a hole directly through him, leaving nothing behind but appearances. How bad was it? Is this why he’s so calculated, the epitome of perfection? Faintly, and somewhat ashamed for it, Will wonders if he might be able to discover the gory details himself. If Hannibal won’t give them.

“ _I was not made into anything. I was born the way I am_ ,” Will quotes, allowing it to circulate in his head and out into the open. “That’s what you said. What are you, then? Why is it ‘unwise’ for me to ask?”

An intelligent, razor-sharp stare cuts into him, perhaps inviting him to continue, but Will resists. Shuts his mouth. Holds the gaze, despite the galloping heartbeat in his chest. He is studied for an eternity. It feels like a challenge, but when Hannibal is finished, he only gives a playful, good-natured smile. “It’s getting late. We should leave this to discuss another time. It would be a shame to run out of pillow talk material already, don’t you think?”

Exhaling, the moment past, Will scrunches up his nose and gives in to the temptation of pinching Hannibal in response. _Perhaps I’ve hit a nerve_ , he worries, searching his face to see if he went too far with his verbal prodding (not physical; he deserves that). Nothing waits for him, other than a tame devotion that melts his skin and propels him forward. He tastes his mouth, realizing with a start that he can also taste salt-filled traces of himself on Hannibal’s tongue. Shamefully, he finds this exciting, and briefly relives the whole experience from before in quick flashes behind his eyes. It will be the only thing on his mind for days.

He can feel Hannibal trying to part from him, and in some feeble attempt to hold him back, Will pulls on his lip with his teeth. A very weak threat, really. More of a plea than anything else. _Stay._ _Please._

“It’s late.” It isn’t a growl, it’s rather fond, but it still feels like one. His skin prickles.

Yet, “I don’t care. I want more.”

“I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“I won’t get overwhelmed,” Will lies, pretending he hadn’t nearly lost his mind just a few short minutes ago.

“Be patient. I must insist you speak to me as soon as possible, dear Will,” purrs the animal beside him, sending shivers down his spine. “But, for now, we should retire to our own beds. The weekend is over, small one. You’ve kept me quite busy.”

“I’m not small,” Will grumbles. He lets go, blowing out his breath in pointed disapproval. Something like despair grips him as Hannibal pushes off the bed and starts to dress himself. He moves fluidly, like a snake, slipping easily into his second skin. Will cannot look away, finding this as captivating as if he were undressing again. He will miss his company, like always.

 _Otherworldly_ , is the word he settles on, quietly admiring his backside.

Something clicks, or perhaps he’s just finally acknowledging it.

The near disgusting, dripping confidence, the intense stares, the utterly _alien_ way in which they all analyze him and seem just a tad bit too removed from reality, as if watching from behind a screen. Experimental in nature. Playing a game. “Not quite right,” Abel had once said of Will. Best in his own words. Hannibal, Abel, Matt.

Will is purposefully blinding himself, ignoring what lies before him, urges him to see, to acknowledge what is going on and that it involves all three of them, and Will is at the center of it.

However, curiosity drives him hesitantly forward, willing to pretend, to play along. There is a shadowed part of him that wants to see what it’s about. What shall happen?

Train of thought broken by Hannibal leaning toward him, Will sits naked in the middle of his bed, his body lit only by the moon outside. He hugs himself, feeling chilled for several different reasons, but is unable to voice his concern. Nothing comes out.

He welcomes the lips that ask for his mouth once more, somehow even more attentive and tender than all the others they’ve shared tonight. His skin flushes, and the rest of him follows in a trance. More kisses spread across his mouth and cheek, and finally rest at the center of his head. Hesitant. Why?

Will finds himself drawn into a tight embrace, a hand resting almost protectively at the back of his neck. He feels safe, and willingly forgets everything else in favor of this small comfort. Suffocates himself in Hannibal’s clothes, in his smell. It will never get old.

“Stay safe, _mylimasis._ "

 


	18. Chapter 18

_It’s disgusting, how the sun shines, how the wind blows, kissing cheeks and soothing limbs, the day it happens. Delicate, pleased laughter of a small child, bouncing off the walls and breathing life into the home. Soon to be corrupted, stolen._

_Barking dogs. “Mama!”_

_Searing pain in the back of his skull, hard enough to crack bone. Did it? Whimpering. Screaming. It all blends into one ringing shriek, and then comes to a full stop, the world around him bleeding black._

_Waking at night. Brain swollen, face and hair dried with something sticky and flaky, tripping over cold masses in the floor, vision unfocused. Can’t see straight. Dead dogs, bigger than he is. One quivers silently with its head caved in, beyond help, torn fabric and flesh still stuck in its teeth. Loyalty poorly rewarded._

_Stumbling into the meadow, legs weak. Follow the trail of blood._

_Mischa._

Hannibal opens his eyes, but he still sees the memory, displayed on the high ceiling above his bed like a film. Reliving it, falling over himself, crawling to the soiled dress and the little girl inside it, cold and long gone. Stained and forgotten in the long grass, heavy in his arms. He cannot move, his chest hurts, threatens to burst from the pressure. 

No one comes. He’s left for dead, like the rest. _But he doesn’t die._

He draws in a deep breath, letting it out slow in the darkness as the scene fades into nothing. He’s bitten deep into his bottom lip, bled a fair amount on the pillow.

A bit of sleep paralysis never killed anyone.

 

* * *

 

Suddenly, it’s November. It’s as cold as ever, as the start of the month rolls on by, frustratingly slow.

Will busies himself the entire week, more so than usual.

In the morning he wakes up, takes a shower, feeds and walks the dog, and either catches a bus or takes a cab or calls Beverly for a ride to class. Classes themselves drag on like a snail, with them reviewing and preparing for the end of the semester, for tests that will be taken after the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday break.

Will has an idea of how he will spend those few days, hopefully in Hannibal’s bed and being fed delicious food, but he hasn’t asked, nor has anything been offered, so he puts it out of his mind and spends most of his time studying and researching. There’s still time. He comes home, sometimes takes another shower, or goes for an extra walk or a run with Winston. It’s back to business after that.

When his nose isn’t thrown into a book and his hand isn’t busy with a pen, he works his shitty job, for money that is hardly worth the interaction. He often finds himself cursing Hannibal Lecter for having a mysterious, seemingly never-ending ‘inheritance.’ Immediately following, he beats himself up for even thinking it. For all he knows, Hannibal struggles more than him, though on an entirely different level.  

Hannibal is near unreachable, at least physically, due to such intense studying of his own. It’s what he says, anyway. It’s a bit early to be studying with such dedication. In retrospect, his grades probably matter much more than Will’s. The owner of such a gifted, talented mind, and here Will is, restocking dog food and kitty litter, and wearing awkward smiles that will never pass as legitimate or be the least bit charming.

He misses his company, but Hannibal has not closed himself off entirely to Will even if their encounters have proven to be somewhat… _different_ , since the night Will grilled him so hard. It might have been a mistake, digging for such private information. Just as easily, it could be Will’s anxiety blowing it all out of proportion. He still can’t shake it.

Hannibal isn’t cold, or even reserved, but he does appear to be distracted. Not out of disinterest, but because something is weighing heavily on his mind. It keeps him at a painful distance.

It’s nothing he’s willing to share with Will.

Will doesn’t ask.

The routine of nightly calls continues, where minutes of silence while they work separately is normal, interrupted only by the occasional laugh at a memory begging to be shared, help with a difficult problem, or general discussion. This much, Hannibal indulges him. 

Both up late tonight, only the sound of regulated breath, keyboard clicks and scratching pencils audible over the line. After a while he notices the sound of graphite scraping hurriedly over paper, much too frequently to be writing, and it registers in his brain.

“Are you drawing?” Will asks, flipping through pages of a textbook. It cuts his finger and he hisses at the sharp sting, sucking on it.

“I am.”

Will tongues the wound, tastes his own blood. He’s well-acquainted with it now. “Shouldn’t you be working?”

“I suppose I should be,” Hannibal says, but Will doesn’t hear a single change in pace. He doesn’t seem sorry at all. His thoughts are, once again, somewhere else. “I’m taking a small break.”

“Sounds wonderful.” Sitting back and groaning at the crack of his spine and shoulders, Will drops the injured hand to his side.

“Will Graham is stressed,” Hannibal muses absently.

“I’m always stressed,” he murmurs in response, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the chair at his too-small desk. “Remember?”

“I remember. I would suggest giving yourself a moment to recollect your thoughts before you continue, see if it helps relieve it a bit.”

“Recharge my metaphorical batteries.”

“Yes, that.” _Scritch-scratch._

“I think I want to go to sleep,” Will decides, shutting the book loudly and tucking his things away, the decision already made. He will continue this tomorrow. Or the day after. At some point.

His phone vibrates violently. He’s got a text from Matthew. He’d finally caved and messaged him earlier in the week, after feeling guilt over not doing it yet, while also fearing a personal visit if he didn’t do it soon. It had been surprisingly, reassuringly casual ever since.

Matt knew he’d tested their boundaries, and he was slowly letting them come back up, while building an uneasy trust. Random conversation and general fuckery, nothing serious, although every so often Will worried that Matt had met with Abel again. He asked, but Matt said no. He knows it’s a lie.  

 

_“i’m tellin you, you’ve got to check it out. place is crazy. i’m turning into a fatass on the room service”_

 

Will deems it safe to ignore, checking the time and figuring he can shrug it off as having been asleep when he responds later.

“Can you afford to do that?” Hannibal asks, his tone laced with a gentle skepticism about Will turning in for the night with so little time left until final exams. He means well, and it comes through as such, despite Will’s daily growing frustration.

Will hesitates. “Yeah,” he replies after thinking it over, forced to because Hannibal made him momentarily doubt it. “I can afford it. I’ll be fine. I’m just, so fucking tired.” Once he starts, it spills out in a string. “I hate my job, I hate people. I guess I don’t hate them, I just don’t enjoy them. The ones that I do enjoy are all busy, so I just have my dog, who I think is mad at me by the way, or mad at you. I hate studying, I don’t even know why I chose this college or profession, it’s not like I have an intense interest for it, I just didn’t know what else I could possibly do. It’s expensive and I can’t…”

“Winston is angry with us?” Hannibal wonders, his amusement at the idea showing.  

Will’s hands are tangled in his hair, ready to pull it out in clumps, but now they halt. He inhales deeply, exhaling a smile that comes naturally. A genuine one. “Yeah. It’s kind of funny, now, but I don’t want him to stress over it every single time we mess around, you know? It’s not fair to him. I’m not sure what to do.” He guesses he could ask a classmate, frame it as a hypothetical question, but he just snorts. How would that go? _Let’s say my dog thinks my partner is hurting me when we do so much as make out, what should I do? How can we have sex without giving my dog a heart attack?_

“You see a future with more sexual activity between us in it,” Hannibal muses, making Will flush. Teeth click thoughtfully. No more pencil brushing over paper. Perhaps it’s in his mouth. “You’re still interested in us progressing further?”

Will’s face falls. Swallowing is a habit of his now, and it gives him away entirely. “Of course I am.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

“Did you doubt me?” Will ventures, heart throbbing with anticipation. Tread carefully. _Could this be why you’ve seemed so preoccupied?_

Hannibal doesn’t speak for a few heavy seconds that pass in utter silence. Will bites his tongue. In a blink, it’s over, the air filled with that rough timbre and charming accent, and then his hurtful words. “I confessed something deeply serious to you the last time we met, perhaps sloppily, and I didn’t elaborate when you pushed. I’m aware I left a bad impression. I had wondered if what I said, and my leaving, changed your mind about how we should continue.”

Rolling his shoulders back and then forward, Will heaves a sigh before jumping into his response. He makes sure to clear his throat and lick his lips before answering, exasperated, but firm. “Hannibal. I’m not rethinking what I have with you just because you told me you suffered a traumatic childhood.”

Hannibal would be flinching at that, maybe, if Hannibal would indeed flinch at anything at all. It sounds too weak. Hearing Will say it, it must resemble pity, which he dislikes. He made that clear. “You would be wise to bring it into consideration. Often, our past greatly affects the future relationships we share with others. It can cause severe difficulty. But I was referring to my lack of willingness to speak, and how it bothered you. Not the event itself.”

“It’s your story to tell, not mine to hear.”

“I appreciate that,” Hannibal says airily, and Will wishes he could see his face. What emotion is it he’s hearing? Gratitude, or relief? Will chastises himself for imagining he could ever tell the difference. Hannibal’s expressions are so carefully constructed and controlled, he should know better than to wonder at them. Perhaps, one day, he’ll notice all the little tells that give him away.

He’s already discovered the scrunch of his nose (distaste), and the twitch of his lip (irritation). His shiver under Will’s touch, once (desire).

There is a long pause, and then: “Will, I want to tell you. I would like to tell you many things, perhaps show you even more.”

Will softens at the confession, unable to help himself. “You don’t have to tell me right now,” he assures him quietly, taking the phone off speaker and holding it up to his ear. Hannibal’s response, directly against his skin, causes him to shiver. He can imagine him here, lips skimming over flesh.

“In time, I’ll tell you everything.”

It’s a promise, and it probably means more than Will could possibly understand, but he doesn’t want to cheapen the moment by adding needless commentary to it. _I want you now_ , he wishes to say, but he doesn’t. He will wait, patiently, as Hannibal has shown him patience. With grace, and consideration for others.

“Your breathing has slowed tremendously. You should rest soon.”

Will shudders, catching a brief chill. It’s as though his body heard him. He’s drained, and Hannibal is right. He’s beginning to doze.

“Wait here,” he manages to say, and sets about preparing for bed. Washing his face, brushing his teeth, kicking off his pants. Routine, slowed by exhaustion. Checking on Winston, who has made himself comfortable in an armchair and wags his tail happily at Will in passing, but is just as sleepy and makes no attempt to move.

 _Not so mad after all_. Will smiles at him, kneeling to press his nose against the top of his head. Barely dodging a lick to the face, he returns to his bedroom.

Climbing under the safety of his covers, lights switched off and door open should Winston feel the need to join him in the night, Will sets the phone on the pillow next to his head. Volume just loud enough for him to hear. “All right, I’m in bed now,” he declares, rolling onto his side. He stares at the screen, at the name portrayed in large, white letters. _Hannibal._

This, they have not tried before. Hannibal’s interest piques, as his pencil had been working again, and now it stops once more.

“This is new,” Hannibal says, while Will fidgets under the blankets, toes curling and limbs stretching, settling in.

Will’s courage has grown, as he can only be heard and not seen. No need to hide his blush. Still, he struggles. He does his best to lower his own tone, to keep the nervousness out of it. It comes out breathless, but perhaps he can use that to his advantage. “Tell me, Hannibal, what are you doing now?”

“I am preoccupied with sketching of one of the many _Judith Beheading Holofernes_. Not by Caravaggio, but Artemisia Gentileschi. There is a sense of empowerment behind the recreation that the original clearly does not have. She inserted herself into the scene, slaying her mentor, her rapist. Would you like to know the story?”

He’s not going to make this easy.

“ _Where_ are you?” Will prompts, not ready to give up just yet, and allowing the desperation to creep into his voice.

“In my study.” Hannibal perhaps lifts his head. Will imagines it. Imagines him catching on, catching the scent of him. “Where we had one of our very first more sexual encounters, if you recall.”

“I do recall,” Will says. “I also recall our last encounter.”

“As do I, fondly.” He can hear the smile, can imagine the glint of sharp canines, peeking past slightly parted lips. Perfect for biting, good for pricking a finger. Drawing blood. Will wants to run his fingers over them. Play with fire. He might be lucky enough to get burned.

He allows his muscles to relax completely against the bedding, closing his eyes to consider it now. Hannibal crushed between his thighs, mouth traveling down his stomach as he arches his back in response. Hands dragging along his sides, resting against his hips. Digging in, leaving angry bruises. Marking him. His own hands mimic the touch in his fantasy.

Hannibal has fallen quiet. “Will you make me beg this time?” he wonders aloud, half expecting silence in answer.

“Not this time.” It sounds mouth-wateringly eager, less refined. He wants him. His voice is low, steadily dropping to a whisper. “Can you touch yourself for me, Will?”

Will can.

“Tell me how that feels.”

He does.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the week, Will has a decision to make.

Ultimately, for all its stupidity, he chooses to be civil and accept Matt’s invitation. Of course, he must have ulterior motives; he’s sure that everyone around him has them, and he has allowed himself to develop his own in turn, without guilt. It’s high time he discovers what no one will tell him directly. He figures Matt’s clear obsession with him, his near infatuation, will be the key to understanding what’s going on under his own nose. At least, this is the basic idea, leaving out all possible hiccups that might accompany it. He didn’t account for those.

The change in him, the lessening of his fear, is something he tries not to think too hard about. It started the night Abel pushed his way into his apartment, with the picking up of a bottle. Intent to maim. Fed up with his shit. Will’s discussion with Hannibal, their tumble in the sheets. His confidence soars. He realizes his own worth, his own power.

He can only hope it doesn’t make him _too_ stupid.

He still hasn’t mentioned Matt to Hannibal, so it might be taking affect already.

Matt welcomes him with open arms, though only figuratively. Lesson learned, he is cautious around Will, not pulling him into an embrace this time but instead greeting him at a local bar with a nod and a warm smile. It comes off awkwardly, not at all charming, but at least well-meaning. His features appear sharper, more prominent. For all the room service he claims to order at the hotel, he looks thinner than the first time they met. Maybe it was a lie.

It could be the dim lighting, but the bags under his eyes are telling a story. Will doesn’t comment on it, storing the observation for later reflection, and takes a seat opposite him in a small booth. He’s grateful for the distance between them and the noisy night crowd milling in, though considerably more comfortable in his own skin.

He’s not very hungry, so despite his better judgement he caves at the idea of ordering a drink. Nothing special, but Will doesn’t require much to get wasted. He’ll have to watch himself. He moves to take off the (still stupid) red scarf around his neck, but once his fingers touch the fabric and he catches a whiff of the familiar smell, he decides against it. In case he does get drunk, there’s no point risking forgetting it and leaving it behind. Matt’s gaze lingers on the accessory, a little too long, and then drag back up to Will’s face expectantly.

“How long are you staying?” Will asks, aware that Matt has been here for nearly a week, maybe more, and supposedly only for Will. This is only the second time they’ve met.

Matt’s eyebrows shoot up and his pupils hurriedly dart elsewhere. Coming up with an answer on the spot, then. He doesn’t have a clue. “Oh. A few more days, maybe,” is what he settles for, before downing another shot of whatever he’d started himself on before Will got here.

He’s dressed in all black, like before, though his clothes look somewhat wrinkled. He might have slept in them the night before. He did shower; Will can smell the cheap soap, and he doesn’t look greasy. Displaced, perhaps, but not gross. It might be a good idea for him to go home soon, wherever that might be. He’s running on fumes.

Instead of suggesting this, Will inspects his own glass and goes for something else. “You been up to much this week? I figure it didn’t take long for the boredom to set in.” _Since I’m the only reason you’re here, and I made myself entirely unavailable until now._ Keeping the sass to himself.  

“I’m not very outgoing, anyway,” Matt says with a weak laugh, relaxing a little. He lifts his eyes then, tone suddenly serious, though a smile plays on his lips. “I’ve had Abel to keep me company while you’ve been busy.”

Will finds himself stuck, unsure whether he should be unnerved or not. He suspected it, regardless, and isn’t that surprised.  

“Okay,” he begins, testing the waters. “How did that go?”

Matt tilts his head ever so slightly, as though sizing Will up, but ultimately, he straightens his posture and stares down at the empty shot glass with a look of distaste. “Oh, about as expected. He’s crazy,” he says, tapping a finger against his own skull for effect.

“He came to my house, that night.”

“I think he mentioned something like that. Crazy, like I said.”

Matt hadn’t brought it up at all during the week, but in all fairness, Will hadn’t either.

Minutes pass and he’s somehow ordered another drink, face flushing while Matt drones on and Will mostly just listens, enjoying the simple task of socializing. It’s been a while since he’s met with Beverly, he realizes with an onslaught of guilty feelings. He should remedy that.

Matt is ranting, about one particularly gruesome case he must be obsessed with lately. People around them gradually move to other areas, after shooting Matt looks of disgust that he either doesn’t see or chooses to ignore. Grossed out by the gory details, and at how easily he mentions them. Will considers logging onto the website with his phone, checking what Matt’s new username might be, and if it’s related to what he’s saying now. With a chuckle, he says as much.

Matt bites his tongue and stifles his own amusement, as affected by the alcohol as Will is. His volume is almost too loud, but he seems to notice and at least he attempts to curb his enthusiasm. It only works in short bursts, but it’s still an attempt. “You don’t get online much anymore,” he says, an accusatory note in his tone. “I thought you were into this stuff as much as me. That place is a goldmine for people like us.”

 _Like us._ Will doesn’t appreciate the association, but he can’t point out why. He does share some of the same interests, but he keeps most of it to himself. He doesn’t revel in it or participate in the bizarre culture around it. It’s intriguing, that’s all. “I’m fine with it,” he finally replies, swallowing another sip that burns on the way down and warms his skin. He shrugs off his coat, sweating. _Leave the scarf on_ , he reminds himself. _Don’t dare lose it._

As if remembering something important, Matt leans forward over the table, fingers tapping hard against it. If he taps hard enough, it might come out easier. He trips over his tongue a bit, but his eyes hold purpose when he speaks next. “That reminds me of something Abel told me, the other day.”

Mood souring at the mention, Will presses his back against the booth. Distances himself. “I don’t value much of anything he has to say.” However, this would be the time to learn more, with Matt as intoxicated as Will and particularly slack-mouthed. He hesitates, swishing around the remaining contents of the glass in his hand.

All right, he’ll bite. “What _did_ he say?”

Matt can hardly contain himself, and Will almost expects him to jump right out of his seat. “I think you’ll like it. It’s another _unsolved mystery_ ,” he says, dramatizing the phrase. He licks his lips, as though hungry. Will is hungry. He’s on an empty stomach.

“It’s very, uh, relevant to your interests.” He lifts his gaze to meet Will’s, and his eyes are cold. All that previous excitement drains out of them, into anticipation. He’s been waiting to tell this one. He shows his teeth, like a nervous dog.  

“How does it go?” Will asks after a moment, feeling the caution creep into his voice.

Eyes lighting up, Matt nearly knocks the empty shot glasses to the floor in his haste to lay his arms out on the table and make gestures with his hands. “Long time ago, we’re talking over fifteen years. It starts the way they always do, at least from the victim’s end of things. A happy family, whose world gets turned upside down in the blink of an eye. Or not so happy,” he adds with hesitation. “It depends how you look at it.”

Will drinks in silence, his teeth scraping the glass and making him shudder from the unpleasant impact.

“In any case, there’s a mother, and a father, and of course they have a lovely girl and a charming boy.” Matt pauses to run his tongue over his lips again, chewing on it after. “They’re wealthy, and a lot of people know it. I think you can guess how it goes from there. A group of people pay a visit to the home, fuck shit up, but like, _really_ fuck it up. No one’s supposed to come out alive. They want everything they can get.”

Will allows the information to settle into his brain.

Not getting any feedback, and looking annoyed about it, Matt snorts and continues. “Well, Dad goes first, so it’s just the kids and the mom. It’s easy pickings. Bash the dogs’ heads in,” Will does wince at that, and of course Matt provides gestures, “Do the same to the boy. One of them drags the girl out into the field, and, well, _you know_.”

 _You’re disgusting_ , Will wants to say, just for him suggesting it with such carelessness. He’s starting to feel nauseous.

“I’ll leave what happens to the lady to your imagination, I don’t think it’s hard to guess. Rest of the household goes down in a similar manner, it’s basically a massacre. But the best part, the boy survives,” he adds with a grin, like he’s told a joke and just reached the punchline.

Will doesn’t laugh. All the alcohol in his system can’t fight off the cold creeping underneath his skin. “What happened to him?” he asks, wishing he’d gotten up and walked out when he had the chance. He feels heavy, glued to the seat. _What’s going on?_

“Grew up, I guess, I hear he’s doing just splendidly,” Matt replies, flatly. “What’s interesting to me is every suspect involved, whether they were charged or not, started disappearing. Right off the grid, maybe a few years ago, no trace left behind. Except for one.”

“Still around?”

“No, he was _found_ , without his cheeks.”

Will must be giving him a horrified look, because Matt just starts laughing.

“I could have done without a story like that,” Will says at last, swallowing the rest of his drink and placing the glass back down on the table a little too heavily. He’ll blame it on the buzz. Standing, cracking his neck leisurely and pulling his coat back on, he watches the look of disappointment flit over Matt’s face as he sobers up almost immediately.

“Come on, Will. It’s not any worse than what I was talking about before,” he insists, stumbling to his own feet.

It’s true, but a sense of dread is weighing on his shoulders, whispering things in his ear he doesn’t want to hear. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll talk to you later,” he says stiffly, digging through his wallet and throwing a few bills down on the table. Matt eyes it. Will gives him a short wave, ignoring his obvious pouting, and turns to leave.

_Wait._

He stops and holds his breath, tossing a glance over his shoulder.

“Did Abel ask you to tell me this?”

He knows the answer already, that’s why he feels so fucking sick, and it doesn’t help when Matt idly chews on the inside of his mouth, growing pale and glancing away sheepishly.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh.


	19. Chapter 19

Like the little idiot he is, he picks up another bottle on the way home and proceeds to drink himself into oblivion. He should know better. Every time he drinks, something bad happens. He shakes his head miserably, body weak and nearly tipping out of his chair from the way it makes the room spin around him. He needs it. He must process this, and he’ll let himself off easy this time because of the weight of what he’s learned.

Stumbling all the way back to the apartment had been a blur, something far away and out of reach, in some other lifetime. It didn’t feel real, but more like a dream, too fluid and quiet. Like wading through paint. He’d nearly been hit by a car, had walked out right in front of it, and been too startled to do anything when the driver screamed threats from the window and gave him the finger. Bent over in the street and heaving, he had just been grateful Winston wasn’t with him.

Will is almost completely sure, and yet he allows himself the cruelest thing possible; hope. Is it hope? What is he hoping? _“No, he was found, without his cheeks.”_ Stomach turning wildly, he lunges to his feet and makes it to the bathroom in time to duck his head in the toilet bowl and vomit stomach acid and alcohol everywhere. It burns like fire, the taste on the back of his tongue and smell filling his nostrils and making him gag a few more times, to no avail. _“One of them drags the girl out into the field, and, well, you know.”_   That does it. He pukes again, and despite his best efforts not to wretch and sound absolutely disgusting, it’s pretty gross.

“Fucking Christ,” he spits, gasping for air while his phone rings in the other room. He stays where he is, collapsed on the tile, and waits for it to stop. Winston sits in the doorway, turning his ears back and wagging his tail lightly across the floor whenever Will looks at him.

Will would have been stupid to assume it wasn’t all innocent fun and games. He knew it ran deep. But _this…_

He’s in shock.

_“some people think they might be for real”_

His heart races, hammering against his skull and thudding in his ears, in his blood, and he thinks for a moment he might vomit even more. The nausea comes and goes in waves. Slobbering and breathing heavily, he slowly pulls himself together in time to hear the shrieking of his phone again. Once more, he keeps still, as though it might hear him and know he’s there, ignoring it. Silence follows. Satisfied, he flushes down the contents of his stomach and washes his face and mouth out in the sink rigorously.

The reflection in the mirror makes him shudder. He looks horrible. He’s covered in sweat, hair and face dripping water, his skin a ghostly pale as though he’s terribly ill. He’s sick, his body physically reacting to the racing thoughts. He’s stringing a narrative together in his head, and what it reveals is giving him mixed emotions.

That scares him the most.

Abel is manipulating Matt, and Matt has become distasteful towards Hannibal, that much is clear. Because of Abel. Abel wants him to hate Hannibal, and he wants…does he want Will to hate him too? Or is he attempting to scare him off? Is that all this is?

Abel wants Hannibal. What for, Will can’t say with any certainty, but Abel doesn’t appreciate how close Hannibal and Will are becoming. Have become. He doesn’t like it at all. Will recalls the busted car window, Abel’s fist colliding into the glass outside his apartment. He hadn’t asked what Hannibal said to make him so frustrated, he’d been too tired and too eager to drop it. He’s always been eager to drop it. Because he doesn’t want to think about it.

If he thinks about it, he might see the pattern.

Well, now he’s thinking about it, and he sees it, bright as day.

His thoughts go around in circles, coming to conclusions he turns away from, plugging fingers in metaphorical ears and yelling nonsense until it passes. When he’s done, it just comes right back. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it.

He lets out a shaky breath, turning his head to look down at Winston, who wags his tail again in response. Will, with some trouble, crouches to run his hands over the downy fur, losing himself in the comforting texture for a little while. Winston leans in to lick at the hands that pet him, his tongue warm against chilled skin. Will can feel his mind calming. It grounds him, a little.

“You wouldn’t lie to me,” Will praises, scrunching up his nose when he earns another lick to the face, much too close to his mouth for his liking and too fast for him to dodge. Winston settles down a bit, sensing his displeasure, and pants quietly.

“I can’t believe this.”   

He’s not sure if he’s talking about the situation, or himself, because he’s standing and pulling his shoes back on, searching hazily for his coat. Discarded on the floor, covering the red scarf that lies underneath it, thrown off and away as fast as he could manage it. It makes a foreign pain swell in his chest. He realizes what he’s doing. Gathering his things, preparing himself to seek out comfort in the thing that is currently causing him so much distress. He tosses his coat over a chair. The scarf he leaves on the floor.

In a last-ditch effort to make himself presentable, he changes clothes and cleans his teeth, runs a comb through wild strands of hair that look all the worse for it. It’s useless, but he tries anyway. His mind is switched off as he does these things. His conscience beats at the walls, screaming to be let in, and he ignores it in favor of total, freeing silence.

He drains the new, almost full bottle in the sink and faintly wonders how many more times he’s going to do this before it sticks, and if he’ll go broke before it does. He retrieves his phone at last and checks it. Five missed calls from Matt Brown. Nothing else to report. His heart briefly sinks, and he pockets both the emotion and the device. Out of sight, out of mind.

As ready as he’ll ever be, albeit a little wasted, but what else is new, he turns his attention to Winston once again.

“Want to go see Hannibal?”

Winston’s ears perk up.

“Let’s go, bud.”

On the way out, he does bend down and retrieve the scarf.

 

* * *

 

_“No, he was found, without his cheeks.”_

It plays in his head one more time as he exits the taxi, Winston in tow, and shuffles up to the front door. He’s soaked in rain already, and begins to worry if Hannibal might complain, since Winston gets wet too. His feet will be muddy, and he’ll smell bad.

_Why the fuck do I care about that?_

It feels good, though, the rain wetting his hair and trickling down to cool his throat. He’s felt heated since leaving the house, as if he’d indulged in more alcohol. It should all be out of his system soon. His body doesn’t know what the fuck to do anymore, he guesses. It’s given up. He needs to take better care of himself.

Tires squeal roughly against the slippery road and he fumbles with his gloves, pressing the doorbell a little too hard but at least he doesn’t press it multiple times. Winston circles around him, tangling him in the leash. The pretty dog shivers with an uncontained excitement, eyes trained on the door, that would certainly move Will if he wasn’t so fucking confused right now.

Showing up unannounced might have been rude, but when the door opens after a full minute of him waiting and shifting from foot to foot, Hannibal only looks at him with what might be surprise, or might be nothing at all.

It happens too fast.

Will pushes his way inside, beating Winston to it, and uses his full weight to throw Hannibal against the wall in the foyer. He’s shoving his hips snug between thighs before taking his mouth in the same merciless manner. Hannibal winces, his skull connecting with the wall behind them because of Will’s enthusiasm, but Will doesn’t have to wait long for him to return the kiss with an aggression equal to his own.

_“Bash the dogs’ heads in. Do the same to the boy.”_

Chest heaving, Will only pulls away when he tastes blood. For a moment he fears he’s seriously hurt him, or perhaps he’s been bitten himself. In that case, more reason to continue. When he opens his eyes to double-check, he spots the red stains that drain from Hannibal’s nose, the open cut in his lip. Will didn’t do that.

There’s dried blood on the shirt he’s clinging to, and he quickly releases it, dragging his gaze up to meet Hannibal’s. Hannibal stares back, completely unreadable. Winston whimpers impatiently beside them, no doubt feeling left out. The front door is wide open, the rain is pouring down even harder.

_“It’s basically a massacre. But the best part, the boy survives.”_

“What happened?” Will finds himself asking, starting to feel numb all over again save for the twinge of hatred for whoever did this.

“I’ve had a minor disagreement,” Hannibal says, as though this explains everything, slipping easily away from him to shut the door. Will glares at his back, at his ruffled clothes, all sorts of crazy ideas running through his head, accompanied by a flurry of different emotions. “You will find the problem in the kitchen, if you wish to look.”

Will watches him through wide eyes, seeing but not comprehending much of anything, listening to the click of locks and the swish of Winston’s silky tail. Hannibal turns around to face him, quietly assessing the situation, before he eventually decides to step close again. Will remains still. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when a hand cups his cheek and he’s kissed again, softly this time.

He endures being sniffed, too content to complain.

“Are you ill?”  

“I don’t feel very good,” he admits vaguely. “Tell me what happened.”  

Hannibal doesn’t miss a beat. “Abel Gideon is here,” he tells him, and fingers run smooth over Will’s skin when he stiffens at the admission. “If you would be more comfortable, you may wait upstairs and I will send him off, or you can return home if that would be preferable.”

Will might hit something, but the hands that touch him are too skilled, expectant of his frustration and fully prepared to settle him. “I guess he did that?” he asks, brushing a thumb over Hannibal’s nose and ignoring the small twitch of displeasure it provokes.

Hannibal leans in, warm breath against Will’s ear. “Would you like to see what I did?”

It’s easy to forget everything else. “Yeah.”

He lets himself be led. 

Winston pads ahead of them, claws clicking against the floor, but it comes to a full stop as soon as he recognizes Abel. The hair on the back of his neck bristles, his hackles rise, and Will can hear a low growl threatening to spill out of his throat. He digs his fingers in Winston’s fur, stopping beside him. Hannibal moves deeper into the kitchen. Will follows him with his eyes.

Abel leans against a counter, rubbing at an inflamed and irritated jaw. Blood runs from his nostrils, too. He’s squinting, so he probably got hit elsewhere in the face aside from his nose and mouth. This was as recent as the last few minutes. In his hands, he holds what Will finally makes out as two molar teeth, presumably his own. There is a long, red cut drawn out against one cheek. He lifts his head and looks at Will once Winston’s growling picks up. Instead of giving him the smile Will has come to expect, or even a smart remark, he just snorts and looks away again.

He holds himself poorly, shifting his weight around unsteadily, so Will figures there is more injury than just what he sees on the surface.

It’s strangely satisfying, and the kitchen isn’t even a mess, probably cleaned before he got here. Will’s arrival didn’t interrupt the fight itself, but he did come close enough to catch the aftermath, and fuck, is it sweet.

Hannibal returns to his side with a half full glass of wine and Will takes it, biting down hard on his lip to avoid cracking a pleased smile. He can’t help it. Hannibal catches it, inclining his head toward Will as if to silently scold him, and takes a sip from his own glass as he turns to observe the pathetic scrap that Abel Gideon has been reduced to.

“Don’t look so pleased,” Abel spits without looking at either of them, but it’s clearly meant for Will. “It wasn’t about you.”

It tells Will all he needs to know; that it was about him. He soaks it up in silence.

Abel lifts his head and shows his teeth, stained pink. “Tell me, how did it go with Matthew today? Did he deliver my message? I imagine that’s why you’re here, and why you reek of fear. It’s unbecoming.”

Will flinches inwardly, fixing his eyes on the wall. He pretends not to notice that Hannibal gives him his full, unrestricted attention. He can’t see his expression, but he’s sure it’s empty. Would his eyes reflect that? He doesn’t dare check.

Will gulps at the wine and curls his lip at the strong, bitter taste flooding his senses. He forces the swallow. It’s not supposed to go down all at once. Hannibal is watching him closely, practically burning into his flesh. Will makes a small noise without meaning to.

Abel laughs, however weakly, his mood soaring at the confirmation. “Oh, don’t let me intrude. I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about now,” he says giddily, but when he pushes away from the counter he grits his teeth ( _remaining teeth_ , Will thinks smugly) together with the effort. Winston barks at him from Will’s side, taking a couple of steps forward. Will tuts at him and he sits.

Limping for the exit, Abel must first pass all three of them. He does it with an injured sort of grace, held only by those who will never admit when they’ve lost. “You’re next,” he whispers playfully to Will, who now feels like _he’s_ lost, before winking at Hannibal. “See you later. Don’t break your new toy.” There is a bounce in his step, showing through the pain.

“Goodbye, Abel.” Hannibal is indifferent. Will is thoroughly fucked, and can’t open his mouth.

For someone who just had his ass kicked, Abel is rather cheerful now that he’s seen Will suffer, if only for a moment. Winston backs himself against Will’s leg, watching warily as Abel leaves the kitchen. His unsteady steps are the only noise, aside from Will and Hannibal’s faint breathing, until the door swings open and shuts, carelessly slammed behind him. One last childish show of rebellion.

Will swallows in the emptiness that follows, looking over at Hannibal who turns and aims for the island in the middle of the room. Neither of them speak, and Will can’t stand it, watching him pour another glass of wine. He chews the inside of his cheek and inches his direction. “Hannibal, I-“

“I know,” Hannibal assures him, without emotion. “Abel is incapable of keeping things to himself for long, even if they are a part of his own plans. He decided to come and tell me about it,” he says, setting the bottle down lightly, almost noiselessly.

“Abel is using Matt.”

“He is,” Hannibal agrees, allowing him a small nod. He still won’t look at him.

“I don’t know what he wants. I just wanted to see if I could figure it out first, maybe use it to my advantage,” Will confesses while shrugging helplessly, feeling small in his own skin.

“You do not have to explain yourself to me.”

Will is quiet for a second, watching Hannibal lean against the island and drink. He isn’t invested in Will right now. “It would seem,” Will starts carefully, waiting to see if Hannibal might eventually look at him. He doesn’t. “That I do.”

Something twitches in Hannibal’s angular face, so fast he might have imagined it. He can’t place it, whatever it was. “You’ll have questions,” Hannibal says instead, running his tongue over his lips and lingering on the small cut. Will would kiss him again, if he’d let him. “You are free to ask them now.”

“What do you mean?”

Hannibal finally does roll his head in his direction, and the expression waiting on his face puts Will to shame. His eyes are half-lidded, entirely unimpressed with him, knowing all too well that Will understands him and is in fact very aware of what he means. _Do not bullshit me_ , his eyes say, while his mouth remains closed.

Will decides to tell the truth, despite his conscience (the pesky thing) screaming at him not to. He creeps forward, setting his empty glass down next to them as he comes close. Hannibal leans in with slow interest, almost clinical. He’s a regal, beautiful thing in Will’s eyes, but he’s fucking intimidating when he wants to be.

Will draws closer. Hannibal studies him with a face of stone, still holding his wine glass. Will thinks of Abel, stained with blood and crawling on the floor, beaten, with Hannibal standing over him, triumphant. How it must have gone. Did his heart rate even accelerate? Or was he as calm as he is now? It's suddenly hard to breathe. “I thought I wanted to know. Now I’m not so sure,” he confesses with as much honesty as he can muster.

“Should I be worried?” Hannibal asks, as physically unresponsive as ever, though his dark eyes are certainly smoldering with _something._

Will is becoming fast discouraged. “No, I don’t think so,” he says with a short sigh, his shoulders sinking low, now struggling to keep eye contact.  

Fingers come up beneath his chin, tipping his head back. He might have eluded him, had it been anyone else. Now, he doesn’t question it, his skin flushing at the touch. “Were you planning on manipulating him in return?”

“What?” he asks dumbly, mouth slack.  

“Matthew Brown, Will.”

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t, not really. He doesn’t know much of anything anymore.

He waits for Hannibal to push him away. He fully expects it, convinced by his cold exterior, but he surprises Will with a small smile instead. Just one corner, his expression nothing less than endearing. No teeth. A hint of amusement, nothing more. “You must learn to pace yourself, Will. You drink too much. You’re exhausted.”

It’s true, but that doesn’t stop Will from emitting a low groan. He turns his face into the hand cupping his cheek, enjoying it while he can, before that disappears too. Hannibal is being kind, but he is still holding him at a distance. Is this his punishment?

“Stay here, with me.” Again, he’s hit with a surprisingly tender request.

He should get out of here and pull himself together. Why did he come? What on fucking earth made him think this was a reasonable option? Why is it so hard to open his mouth and ask? Is it that hard? _What happened to you? What did you do? What’s going on? Why am I running straight into your arms and not far, far away?_

“Do you have any more wine?” he mumbles into Hannibal’s palm, resisting the faint urge to taste his skin.

“No more for you, I’m afraid.”

He does look up, then, but he’s too tired to voice his offense, and Hannibal is staring at him with such an intense look of fondness that for a moment he feels completely weightless. It disappears as soon as he notices it, expertly concealed behind glass; it was not yet meant for his eyes to see.

He aches for it to come back, but it’s locked up tight. It’s safer that way.

Will isn’t the only one who is feeling helpless.

 

* * *

 

Will can’t sleep.

He lies trapped in silk sheets that are so foreign to him it almost feels criminal to be sleeping in them, with his snoring dog curled up next to him, leaving masses of hair behind and his own rough scent. Moonlight spills in through the window, casting deep shadows that move if he stares at them too long. It makes him nervous.

He blows out his breath, miserable in the borrowed clothes that unfairly smell like Hannibal. It makes him open his eyes again, expecting to see him there, and instead there is nothing.

It’s still raining, softly now, tapping against the glass in a faint rhythm. It doesn’t soothe him enough to put him under. He’s not going to rest at all here. It’s cold, and void.

He waits a long while before he slips out of bed, feeling abnormally heavy and lightheaded when his feet hit the floor. Winston is much too comfortable in his spot to complain or even open an eye. He’ll be fine.

Will keeps his steps as light as possible, rubbing at his freezing arms in the hallway and exhaling sharply at a draft. It’s dark and he doesn’t have his glasses. He squints until things start to look familiar and then he traces a path through his memory, when he was led there, when it was brighter and it was brand new.

When things were simpler. Not by much, but enough. 

It’s unlocked. He takes a few quiet breaths, alone with panicky thoughts, before pushing the door open and slipping through. He closes it behind him.

He climbs into the occupied bed, taking his time and hoping not to cause a disturbance. He presses his chest against a bare back and smothers his face in Hannibal’s throat, soon aware that he is also awake, and that he would have heard Will before he even entered the room. Will loses himself, emboldened by the cover of the night, littering kisses along the neck below him and up to the jawline. His chest tightens when Hannibal rolls over to face him, fearing rejection, but hands run down the length of his body and an arm hooks around his waist, tugging him closer.

He suppresses a shiver as fingers wander beneath his clothes and rush over skin. Will knows he must feel like ice, and now Hannibal seems to be intent on sharing his warmth. Will opens his mouth to speak, only to be shushed by a hungry one that covers his own. _You missed me too._ His toes curl.

He works his tongue around his, swiping over sharp teeth and licking at the cut in Hannibal’s lip, tasting the iron. Noses and cheeks brush against one another, hot breaths exchanged and lost between them. He pulls away suddenly, leaving Hannibal confused and openly disappointed, following him and looking a little lost when Will doesn’t return.

It makes Will proud of himself, of the sway he must hold over him. He seems so vulnerable in that moment.

Will traces his fingers over muscle, staring down at bruises that were hidden by fabric before. Reminders, dirtying precious, unscarred skin. Will wants to bite them, cover them, make them his. No other mark should be allowed to stain him. Only Will’s.

He places his hand on one side of Hannibal’s face, lightly, so careful. He’s afraid to touch him more, lest he shrink away, withdraw into himself. He searches his eyes, focusing on the blood red flecks that shine in the dark, reflecting off any hint of light like a predator’s gaze.

“Hannibal, did you kill those people?” he whispers.

He knows what to expect.

“Yes,” Hannibal replies flatly, never faltering, never blinking.

A warmth spreads from Will’s ribs, throughout his belly and travels down into his groin, and the sound that escapes him shocks himself more than the confession. Or what it means. He climbs on top of him, reveling in the surprise that flits over Hannibal’s face and the desire that overtakes it when Will seats himself, grinding against him with an alarming amount of need.

_Wrong._

He’s aware of his shirt being removed, over his head and tossed away, of digits hooking into his pants and slipping underneath, hands coming to rest against the naked curves of his backside. Digging into abundant flesh. He makes no move to stop it.

_I’m okay with it._

He releases a trembling breath, leaning in to connect them again, as they bite and gnaw on one another greedily.

“Beautiful.”

Yes, it is.

_They deserved it._

He’ll tell himself that, over and over, while shivering and gasping from the caresses of a murderer. While he sucks on bruises, desperate to hide them beneath new blemishes of his own making. He’ll blame it on love, because that must be what this is. Some sort of twisted affection clouding his judgement. He won’t ask himself if he would have justified it otherwise, because the answer says a lot more about Will than it does about Hannibal.  

He just doesn’t care.

 


	20. Chapter 20

“Dear Will, have you any idea what you've gotten yourself into? You do, don’t you?”

Will can barely hear him as it is and he doesn’t give an answer, much too preoccupied with the soft hands that slide against his skin and promptly slip off the rest of his clothes, tugging them down to rest around his ankles until he maneuvers himself out of them. He is in no better shape, as he enthusiastically returns the favor, or tries to, maddened by how easy Hannibal makes it look. His fingers won’t work. His head is spinning, somewhere far away and outside of himself, but his body is here. Right now, striving to reorient itself.

It’s surreal, having Hannibal laid out underneath him, as vulnerable and naked as Will has always felt under his and everyone else’s scrutiny. Even so, Hannibal is without shame, and he’s nothing short of glorious with his ridiculous bedhead and the bruises blooming along his neck and under his jaw. _Vines of love, by yours truly._ Will tongues at his own teeth, itching to make more, to finish camouflaging the marks that don’t belong to him. It might take a while to find them all in the dim light, but he will make it happen.

He’s trembling, feeling quite like a rabbit trapped in the fox’s den, drowning in pools of maroon and overly exposed from the direct contact of their skin. He’s put himself in an uncomfortable position, even as he hovers over the metaphorical fox, thighs spread and caging the beast in, but the arrangement is all wrong. It isn’t necessarily out of fear, or even anticipation, but his senses feel violated. Everything does. What he thinks, what he feels, what he wants to _do_ despite all of it, _because of it_ , is alarming and wrong.

“You are retreating into yourself. Tell me what you think.”

_Hannibal, did you kill those people?_

**_Yes._ **

“I think I’m having a _very_ inappropriate response to what you’ve just told me,” Will confesses, his voice quiet and hardly above a whisper, afraid of being overheard. _By who, Winston?_ Nevertheless, moving his mouth and forcing words to come out of it encourages the smoky haze of his mind to solidify, to ground itself. Warm palms rest over his hips and fingers nudge experimentally at the flesh there and around his lower belly, drawing a sharp breath out of him.

“Is it so inappropriate?” Hannibal smiles up at him, and Will could swear it’s smug.  

“I’m pretty fucking sure it is,” Will retorts, but he’s lowering himself to Hannibal’s level anyway, gritting his teeth at the gentle caresses that move on to his bare thighs. He’s having a rough time ignoring the growing hardness between them, whereas Hannibal seems to acknowledge it but is simply unconcerned. If anything, he’s mildly pleased with himself.

“Whether they deserved it or not,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Oh, they most certainly _did._ ”

Will is aware of his skin prickling.

“I’m getting the strange feeling,” he starts, letting out a controlled exhale as his fingers map out Hannibal’s face in the dark. His bone structure is prominent and unique, unforgettable, but he’s still so soft to the touch. How is that possible? “You are just as dangerous as the rest of them.”

“Will, do you truly think all of this is just coincidence? Do you believe in that?”

“No, I don’t."

"I thought so."

"You know that I don’t, and that I haven’t for a while,” he admits with a helpless mumble. “But I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to think about it. You know that, too.”

Hannibal ignores him, even as he turns his face into Will’s palm and places a kiss there. “You should. You are drawn to power, and you are drawn to it because it taps into your own reserve, which I imagine you have tried your best to pretend does not exist.” 

“It’s not my fault you three decided to fuck with me,” he grumbles, running what he’s just heard through a filter, grasping for something to hold onto. “Whatever it is that’s going on, I didn’t start it. It’s not my fault, so don’t tell me it’s happening because I’m _drawn_ to it. That's bullshit." 

“You are drawn, though you are right in stating you did not instigate it. But if we are being honest, you’ve hardly tried to avoid it. You find it arousing, you enjoy the game as much as anyone, even knowing as little about it as you do.”

 _What game?_ Will swallows in silence, staring down at the man that presses against his hand and lies below him, yet radiates a natural dominance. Their eyes meet, blue crashing against red, and he can practically see the wheels turning in Hannibal’s mind. _What do you see in me?_

_"Does your mind gravitate so toward the grotesque, even now?”_

It does, with him.

“I want you,” he says suddenly.

“Still?”

“I think so.” Will brushes a thumb over Hannibal’s lips, requesting entrance, and presses hard against a pointed canine when his mouth parts in response. “Hell, more, probably.” _Bad idea. Shut up. Don’t do it._

“Fascinating.” _Stop._

 _Now or never._ “Fuck me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Will covers Hannibal’s mouth to quiet the incoming questions, the unwanted comments, and then replaces his hand with forceful kisses while his fingers rake through already ruined hair, ruffling it in the wrong direction. He delights in the shiver that runs over the body below him, indulges in a little self-satisfaction. It’s so isolating in this massive room, with nothing but shared breath and the faint pitter-patter of rain against the glass to ease the silence.

“Not just swearing,” Hannibal muses thoughtfully when he is allowed to speak again, and he sounds somewhat surprised. Will has managed to amaze him as well as himself. Will kisses him again in confirmation, insistent even when Hannibal tries to mouth the words around him, “Are you sure?”

 _I wonder what you would do if I said no_ , Will thinks, but he has no real intention of changing his mind, even as anxiety creeps back into his limbs and fries his nerves. “Yes,” he says while cringing at how small he sounds, his tone completely betraying his distress, but also his urgency. _Just hurry up, before I become hysterical._

Hannibal’s face is wiped of all emotion before Will can identify it. What a fucking bastard. “You haven’t done this before. Not even alone?”

“Obviously,” Will growls defensively, but the irritation melts out of him when his cheek is touched, his face turned upward to expose his throat, and teeth test and scrape over the skin. “I suppose you have,” he mocks halfheartedly.

“Plenty.”

“Slut,” he accuses. A disinterested _Mhm_ is all he gets in response. “You could’ve lied to me. Y’know. Made me feel special or something.”

“Where would be the fun in that? I should like to show you how.”  

He flushes, but the tiny stings in his neck make him warm in an entirely different sense. He can’t stop shaking, his arousal renewing itself when hips come up to meet his own, a playful push that could turn serious if he wanted it to. Any second, at this rate, as he enjoys the sharp bites against his throat and the easy, idle crush of their bodies.

And then he’s shoved off. His mouth falls open and he’s ready to protest, but he swiftly swallows it down when Hannibal sits up and rests his back against the headboard, extending a hand. “Come here then, Will.”

“Okay,” he says, but it takes immense effort to make himself move. For a moment, he fears he might change his mind after all, but he’s quickly enveloped in an embrace and welcomed back into Hannibal's lap, drawn in by the promise of warmth and closeness. He faces him, mostly supported by strong thighs, but his knees still sink into the sheets and he’s back to feeling helpless once again when lips press against the top of his head and make their way to his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, and the kindness behind it unravels him just as much as something more suggestive might.

Eventually, most of the tension seeps out of his muscles and he relaxes most of his weight. Fingers trace over his skin, cherishing it, light and fleeting until he wants more than just a gentle touch and makes it known. He communicates this by biting him, however lightly, on the shoulder in the hopes that it gets his point across. He can feel the smile it provokes, pressing against the flesh of his neck.

Will gives himself a rather pathetic, rushed pep talk when Hannibal leans away momentarily, reaching for the bedside drawer. _Oh. Okay. I can do this. It’ll be fine. It’s fine._

Hannibal senses the resurgence of his distress as well as Will suspects animals can smell fear. Perhaps Hannibal can’t smell fear too. Will would legitimately be surprised if he couldn't.  _How_ do _I smell?_ He considers asking him, for fun, but in the end he doesn’t dare because he probably smells like dog, and the last thing he wants to hear is the truth, delivered in a deadpan tone and with a curled lip. 

“Relax,” Hannibal says seriously, but he remains gentle, taking Will’s face in his hands to look at him. It does fuck-all, other than feeling good. “You are in full control of what happens to you, Will, I promise you.”

Hannibal waits for him to nod all the same, communicate that he's aware, and Will shuts his mouth tight at the sound of a bottle cap flicking open. It’s almost vulgar. His stomach flips.

“Look at me.”

 _Please don’t make me do that._ He does, though, and is rewarded with an expression that borders on charming, while fingers trail in the dark curls on his scalp and pull him closer. “Whatever you need, you will tell me.”

“Yes,” Will agrees weakly, relieved when he’s allowed to dip his head forward and kiss him. No more looking.

He stiffens as a hand moves to the small of his back, and he hastily, frantically distracts himself by invading Hannibal’s mouth. Their teeth knock together, hard, and he’s still cursing him and recovering from the mishap when his legs are spread further apart and a slicked finger runs over his entrance before he even knows what’s happening. It’s experimental, nothing too intrusive. It’s so foreign and new he isn’t sure what to think of it at first, but the more it circles around and strokes his flesh, making the touch smooth, he starts to reconsider.  

He corrects the earlier assault by kissing Hannibal properly, but he’s fast becoming unfocused, his legs trembling for an entirely different reason than fear. He buries his face in Hannibal’s shoulder, letting out a small hiss when a small section of the finger pushes inside him. It isn’t uncomfortable, not yet, and it still feels only weird, but it’s _him_ and it’s what he’s _doing_ , and that’s enough to get him going.

He was asked a question, maybe some variant of _Are you all right?_ but it’s lost to him as the finger slips deeper, all the way up to the knuckle. It’s a shock, much more obvious than before. “You’re crazy,” he breathes at last, and Hannibal leans in with interest. “There’s no way you’re going to fit in me,” he adds with a pointed look down between them. Hannibal is much bigger than a fucking finger, and Will is already coming undone.

“It’s intimidating,” Will says.

Hannibal exhales heavily through his nose in poorly contained amusement, and Will instantly feels a bit better about the situation at hand. He sinks against him, taking his time to normalize the sensations. Just as he thinks he might gain a little bit of dignity back, the digit starts moving and massaging the inside walls, and some terrible, profane sound escapes his mouth. It resembles a whimper.

Hannibal notices it the way he naturally notices everything, much to Will’s dismay, and so the touch becomes relentless. It leaves him fidgeting to both get away and get closer, unable to make up his mind. He can’t decide. It’s _good_ , and that’s the problem. He heaves out a shaky breath and lays a hand on Hannibal’s chest, hoping to steady himself. He does it poorly. He’s leaking all over them both, and the shame makes him want to disappear.

“ _Oh_ ,” he exclaims, biting down on the inside of his cheek when Hannibal mercilessly adds another finger, this time with even less warning. “ _Fuck_ you,” he says, but he might as well be seeing stars, he doesn’t mean it. His body was ready for it, even if it startled him. He crashes their mouths together, his lower stomach jerking in response to the way their tongues collide and stroke against one another. He clamps his teeth down on Hannibal’s lower lip when he feels himself stretched too thin, tastes the blood, and laps it up eagerly when he is punished accordingly with a rough thrust.

Will realizes he’s pushing back against Hannibal’s hand, and he can’t remember when he started doing it. It might have been a while, it might have been just now. Things are starting to blur, it takes all his self-control not to reach down and take them both in his hand. Reading his mind, or maybe he said it aloud, shit, fuck, Hannibal’s free hand does exactly that, rubbing them together with the natural slickness Will has inadvertently provided. He’s a complete wreck already while Hannibal remains no worse for wear, and that really pisses him off. _More_ , he wants to say, but his pride gets in the way.

Hannibal is going to make him ask for it.

Will prepares to give in and make a request through clenched teeth, maybe with a few curses thrown in for good measure, but Hannibal angles the fingers inside him just _so_ , and he’s immediately reduced to a puddle in his arms. _Oh._ For a moment, he can’t breathe, he can’t think, can’t do anything, and he’s half convinced he’s going to come right here and now. Everything feels fluid and sped up, his limbs are like jelly and the trembling has only gotten worse. Hannibal eases up and toys with him in calculated intervals, the most careful attention paid to how Will’s body reacts to the touch, and guiding his every move. It should make him angrier, but Will loves him for it.

He’s never had a lover that cared enough to listen to every little twitch and noise that comes out of him, not like this, so attuned to what he wants. Lips press against his forehead and all the former frustration he had with him is long gone and forgotten, a ghost in the wind, and he just can’t understand why he didn’t do this sooner. He should have done this sooner.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs.

“Do you think you’re ready?” Hannibal is ever-patient, he doesn’t sound rushed at all, genuinely only asking whether Will wants to continue or carry on as they are. Will is entirely convinced that if he called it all off, right now on the spot, or if he asked to finish like this, Hannibal would let him.

His chest tightens at what this might indicate and he opens his eyes. How long have they been closed? _Please, don’t be bored with me._ He isn’t sure he could survive that kind of disappointment. But when he meets his gaze, he doesn’t find him unimpressed, or indifferent, not even smiling or overtly proud of himself. He looks enchanted.

Enchanted with Will.

There is no way in hell that can be true. But it is, it’s apparent in his eyes, pinned so directly on Will’s face and constantly moving to inspect the rest of him, taking note of everything, every minor change in him. _Beautiful_ , he called him, and he believes it religiously if his expression is any proof, pupils blown wide and fixated. Not open in the way Will wishes it to be, in the way that he might be able to truly _see_ him, but still openly captivated, struck with admiration for something of great importance.

“Yes,” Will says, hardly audible, but Hannibal hears him just fine.

Too easily, he allows himself to be laid out on his back, wincing with regret when the fingers slip out of him. He stops missing them as soon as Hannibal fits himself between Will’s thighs, urging them apart and leaning forward to connect their lips in a much kinder, more tender kiss than the previous ones. Will can still taste the blood on his mouth, his fault, but now he just wants to make it better. He’s thrown into a mindset he’s honestly never bothered to touch, not with a ten-foot pole.

Love.

“Do it,” he instructs, and catches Hannibal’s arm when his weight shifts on the bed. “No, I want it just like this.” _I trust you._

Hannibal gives him a funny look, though to his relief it’s not disgust or amusement, just…Funny, like he can’t quite believe it, or he isn’t sure what to do with this writhing, small boy before him. The dog who caught the cat, and forgot why he was chasing it in the first place. Slowly realizing his mistake… _Dear God, please don’t let me be the mistake._  

Some serious inner dialogue must be going on in there. Desperately, Will reaches out to bring him back before he loses him for good. “Please, Hannibal.”

It works.

There is no spiteful, mischievous _Please what, Will?_ or _Tell me again_ or _How could I deny you?_ this time, just the altogether lewd sound of lubrication drizzling out of its container, quickly made up for with another meaningful kiss that sends an electric jolt all the way down to the tips of his toes. He grasps at Hannibal’s shoulders, insisting on maintaining eye contact as they settle and fit against one another. He could swear Hannibal hesitates, but it’s forgotten when he, _finally_ , pushes into him. It’s only a part of the whole, but Will is already puffing from the overwhelming intrusion. It isn’t the same.

“I told you, didn’t I,” he pants, hoping the joke gets through, and finally Hannibal snaps out of whatever reverie he’s fallen into. His lips twitch in the barest hint of a smile, his hands running over Will’s skin in a soothing manner until Will can relax, become used to the astounding sensation of being, in polite words, filled. In not so polite terms, it’s fucking tight and it hurts even with all that preparation. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He makes a low noise when Hannibal drives into him the rest of the way, and he can only pray to the gods that be that it doesn’t sound like he’s been strangled. It must not, it must have sounded rather attractive, because Hannibal heaves out a deep breath Will didn’t know he’d been holding. Will starts tightening his thighs around Hannibal’s waist and pushes himself up on his elbows to meet his mouth. He’s graced with a hungry enthusiasm.

He’s terribly glad that he is where he is, because when Hannibal starts moving Will throws his head back with such force he almost certainly would have knocked himself unconscious if they were on floor or, say, against the wall. He supposes they’ll have plenty of time for him to black out on other occasions, if he so wishes. He almost mentions it, but the only thing that comes out is a bewildered gasp. It probably wasn’t that funny anyway.

It feels amazing, there’s no possible way he’s going to last, not with that slow grind curving into him. He doesn’t even need to be touched, though he knows Hannibal would if Will asked him to. Somehow, he has Hannibal wrapped around his finger, and it’s an incredibly powerful feeling, having someone so entirely _other_ and downright _predatory_ willingly at his disposal. Hannibal was right. Will is drunk on the power, knowing what he can do and what he _has_ done, and the small voice in the back of Will’s mind telling him that he could do it, too, that he is capable of that and much more. It sounds like Hannibal.

He hasn’t spoken in a while. Maybe he doesn’t need to, he’s doing a perfectly good job of keeping Will speechless aside from the occasional whimper or nonsensical, unfunny observation; but Will needs to hear his voice, needs to know what he’s thinking. Just this once. He can give him that, can’t he? Will groans, his roaming mind interrupted by a gradual, and then drastic change in pace. He didn’t even know he needed it until it happens, his body shuddering in response to the pressure being laid into him and against what he’s recently discovered is his prostate. He’s learning something after all. “ _Fuck.”_

“Language,” Hannibal adds sharply, breaking the silence with a stupid, stern reminder that means absolutely nothing to Will, so Will says it again with gusto just to piss him off. He knows Hannibal is too far gone himself for any sort of ridicule. Sticking together with sweat and other fluids, Will leaking embarrassing amounts all over both of them like a teenager, reaching the for the edge. Will might just lose it, hearing how Hannibal’s breath stumbles, giving the purest, quietest sighs drowned out by the noises Will makes in response. He wants to hear it again, strives to shut up long enough, bringing his hips up to meet Hannibal’s in the hopes of eliciting another outburst. He bites off more than he can chew, Hannibal baring his teeth and pushing so hard against him that Will is on the brink of sobbing. It’s wonderful.

“I think I love you,” he says, and immediately regrets the confession because it’s such a typical, cheap thing to mention. It sounds terrible and completely bogus because of the circumstances, in the ‘throes of passion’, and he should have said it before or after or even never at all, but it’s _true_. It’s too late now, it’s out there. He can feel the tears streaming on either side of his face, and he doesn’t know if it’s from pain or pleasure or because he’s just _feeling too much._

Hannibal presses his forehead against Will’s and a hand cradles the back of his neck, while kisses trail over his cheeks and lick the tears away, and it’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for him, to him. Hannibal is shivering as much as Will is, leaning in to whisper strings of foreign words in his ear, half-formed and possibly meaning nothing at all. Will isn’t convinced. “Whenever you’re ready, _mylimasis_.”

 _I’m ready_ , he wants to cry out, but everything leaving his mouth is a mixture a thousand different curses and words and Hannibal’s name, until he finally manages a very distinct “ _Yes!_ ”

A reassuring hand grasps his throbbing, untouched length, stroking him in time with the controlled, determined thrusts inside him. He can’t feel his face, or the fingers brushing against his cheek, he can’t feel anything at all except the mounting desire below his hips. It spreads everywhere when his eyes open and lock on maroon, finding nothing but a primal, lonely _want_ in their depths. It’s the strongest orgasm of his entire life, fueled on by the deep growl in Hannibal’s throat when Will tenses around him.

He’s content to ride out the series of aftershocks with him until it simply hurts, lost in the kisses pressed against his head and in his hair, and he realizes a bit late that he must have grabbed Hannibal’s hand at some point and their fingers are tightly knit together, knuckles white.

It could have been immediate, or it might have been after several minutes, but Hannibal pulls out of him and Will has to bite down hard on his tongue not to protest. He feels spent and utterly empty, and preposterously dirty in every sense of the word, in the very best way.

Out of all Hannibal’s lovers, and surely that is a very long and colorful, impressive list, there must be something special about Will in comparison to the rest. He saw it, he could feel it in how he touched him, how they touched each other, even with his limited experience. He cracked the cold exterior, made it threaten to shatter, caught a rare glimpse of the man behind the veil. Whoever he is.

Maybe he can get him to share a bath. 

 


	21. Chapter 21

Will soaks in the porcelain tub, dragging his dripping fingers over the smooth surface and resting the back of his neck into the curve so he doesn’t have to hold himself upright. He watches Hannibal preen in front of the mirror, towel hanging low around his waist and taking up most of Will’s attention. Will considers reaching out. He could give it a gentle tug, once he gets the chance. That’s all it would take. As tantalizing as the thought might be, though, he isn’t prepared to deal with the consequences of his actions. Not so soon, even if they _are_ rather young and resilient.

He might as well be falling asleep now, his limbs aching and his muscles so incredibly sore in places that have never hurt before, soothed only by the steaming and foaming water surrounding him. He’s covered in bites and bruises he doesn’t remember getting, but those don’t bother him. His eyes are half-lidded, burning a little and impossible to keep open. Only in short bursts. His legs are hanging over the edge to give his spine a rest, likely making puddles in the floor, but he can’t be bothered to tuck them back into the bath.

It was all well worth it.

Hannibal is already often relaxed in his presence, but there is now an element of easiness that he normally doesn’t reflect. He’s willing to sacrifice his usually imposing posture, his back curving ever so slightly in a show of secret laziness, dragging his feet just enough for Will to notice if he really focuses on the steps.  

Will observes him, almost dozing, his eyes traveling down the trim shape of his body and treating it with great reverence as if Hannibal might feel him if he stares too hard. His blinking gradually slows and stutters until his eyes finally shut for good. At some point, maybe only a few minutes later, he feels fingers threading through his hair and smells something sweet and ridiculously expensive and as equally pretentious as Hannibal. Suffering through a mild tremor of delight and surprise, he leans eagerly into the hands washing his hair.

“Thanks,” he says, hating how small his voice sounds and how tired it is. They haven’t exchanged very many words, mostly just touches, like now; massaging his scalp and occasionally brushing over a sensitive ear or down his throat, nudging at his collarbone. He feels pampered, treated with the most delicate care, like a flower whose petals might detach at the slightest wrong touch.

“You’ve done this before. For others,” he hums quietly.

“Yes.”

“Alana?” He regrets asking.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Are you searching for validation in your talents as a sexual partner, Will?”

Will flushes from the incoming surge of embarrassment, taking in a deep breath when a hand pushes lightly on his chest, asking him to move. He slips further into the tub, dipping his head underwater so his hair can rinse. When he resurfaces, he half wishes Hannibal had caught him by the throat and held him under. Shame clings to his skin like glue, and he can’t make a sound, the words _Yeah, actually_ caught in his throat and choking him slowly, painfully.

Fingers rest under his chin and turn his head, and his tension melts away with the touch of soft lips that cover his own. His shoulders sag and he pushes into the kiss, pleased but worried for his own wellbeing when Hannibal’s tongue makes a long stroke against his, bringing back those flighty and fiery sensations in his stomach from before.

It ends too soon, Hannibal pulling away to regard him with a blank, appraising glance. “Whatever causes you insecurity, Will, let go of it in my company. Whatever you don’t know, I will gladly teach you, if you ask me to.”

Well then.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” Will says, dropping his arms into the water and lowering his gaze, a bit too late to avoid the warmth spreading over his face and down his neck. Fuck. His brain is scrambling to clutch onto the ideas that rush through his head, to single any one thought out. When his eyes drift back up he finds Hannibal smiling just slightly, obviously taking great pleasure in just how much Will squirms because of him.

There it is, though, that faraway look, hidden in the tight edges of his features. Will can’t tell if it’s bleak or thoughtful, or nothing at all. It had been easier to differentiate in bed, when at least he was openly hesitant. There, Will could see the possibility of him being overwhelmed, perhaps. Here, it’s harder to pick apart. His eyes are kind but empty, that expression of devotion so totally gone that it physically hurts. _Bring it back._

Reaching out, Will manages to get a wet arm around Hannibal and pull him in again, resting his head against a broad chest. At first he worries, his mind calling back to the scene in the kitchen after Abel left. Offhandedly rejected, not out of malice, but it was still rejection. Hannibal would hardly look at him, barely responded to his touch. Incredibly different from an hour ago, when he couldn’t get enough of Will, nearly unraveling himself. Has it gone back to nice words, but kept at an arm’s length? Distant?

No. Will accepted him. Hannibal knows that, Will knows that. His headspace becomes light and fuzzy from the fingers stroking his arm and over his hand, tracing over bone and admiring his digits one by one. Unexpectedly, Hannibal fits his into them, and Will is overcome with emotion all over again. He’s too tired to do much about it, thankfully, and smothers his face against skin and rough hair, trying to forget how ridiculous he’s been. He cried, didn’t he? Oh God, he did, and Hannibal kissed the tears away.

“I meant what I said,” he says, inadvertently tightening his grip on him. “Earlier.”

“Remind me.”

Will presses against the vibrations, despite his sudden urge to push him away. He would only want him back, and he isn’t about to risk it. “You’re being difficult again,” he says instead, allowing himself to sound mildly displeased. “You know exactly what I mean. I…I said that I…” He can’t say it now, can he? Fuck. But he meant it! His throat is incredibly dry, vocal chords cracking. _I said I love you._

He stills, savoring the tender kisses that come to rest against his cheek and jawline, and turns his head to meet him halfway. _You know, but I still want to say it. Maybe you just don’t want to hear it._ He takes the bait, afraid to continue. 

“You’re distracting me,” he mumbles around Hannibal’s lips.

“Am I?” He sounds so calm. Innocent, not so much.

Yes, he is distracting him excellently. Will isn’t even aware of the hand traveling down his chest until it reaches his stomach, submerged in the water, rubbing against sensitive flesh and making him flinch, venturing lower when it earns a shiver. He’s practically hanging off him now, curling his toes in response to the touch and tensing.

“Oh, no. No, no. I don’t think I can, there’s no way,” he splutters, which turns out to be a complete lie, and he can’t decide whether he should thank or scold his body for reacting with such enthusiasm already. He’s too tired for this, emotionally and physically. Hannibal grips him, giving a few experimental tugs as if to mock Will and show him just how wrong he is. It works. It’s impossibly good, and Hannibal does make him beg this time to get it over with. Will nearly drowns himself in the process, unable to keep from slipping down deeper into the water, held up by a strong arm and trembling from the teeth scraping his ear.

After, finally _entirely_ spent and completely euphoric, Will flops into bed. He somehow makes it on his own, stumbling and groggy, turning down the offer to be carried with an embarrassed little shake of the head. Desperate to keep at least some of his dignity, since Hannibal was kind enough to dry him off, section by section, lingering too long in certain places. Will crawls underneath the covers and nearly passes out on the spot, but stubbornly inches himself close to Hannibal when he joins him. Silently, he praises their unspoken joint decision to forgo dressing, hooking a leg around one of his and shoving his face into Hannibal’s neck. He can see the bruises, even in the dark, and takes pleasure in the realization that it will remain visible for days, constant reminders. He doesn’t know what he’ll do about his own. Probably keep wearing that stupid scarf everywhere. He wants to see it around Hannibal's throat again, admire how his eyes shine a brighter, bloodier red, intense and burning. 

He falls asleep to senseless, happy thoughts. It doesn’t bother him in the least that he has found such comfort in sleeping next to a murderer, naked and tightly wound around him, afraid to even let go. He’s too exhausted to feel guilty over this total lack of concern. The world fades to black, but it feels white.

 

* * *

 

Will doesn’t wake until late afternoon, and it’s so hot under the covers he doesn’t have to open his eyes to know he isn’t alone. He chooses to stay blind, furrowing his brow and screwing his eyes shut tight to avoid the sunlight filtering into the room. He wriggles closer to the source of the heat, until his chest presses successfully against a bare back on the other side of the bed. This is how it all started last night. Hannibal doesn’t roll over to greet him this time, but Will can feel the deep intake of breath and its gradual release, acknowledging his presence. Memories from the night before wash over his senses and alter his tired morning haze into an alert arousal.

Encouraged, Will dips his head and lightly nips at the skin of his throat and on his shoulder. He wasn’t originally intending to leave more marks, but he gets a little carried away and renews a few choice favorites, swirling his tongue around them and sucking on flesh until he’s absolutely sure Hannibal is awake and enjoying it.

“Mmff,” is his reward, and it’s more than enough to give him butterflies, squeezing Hannibal tight around the waist at the noise. “Do not start what you cannot finish,” Hannibal growls, most of his words obscured by a pillow, the rest tainted by a deliciously thick accent and affected by deep sleep. Will blatantly ignores his warning, bravely lowering his hand down to rest against Hannibal’s hip and delighting in the sigh it provokes. He’ll keep poking the beast. Maybe it will do something interesting.

Hannibal finally glances over his shoulder, and Will adores in the messy hair, the slight confusion clouding his gaze, only there because he’s off guard and hardly had time to collect himself. “Following my advice again? Taking what you want?” He’s composing himself fast now, much to Will’s dismay, shedding his vulnerability right away. Will’s confidence plummets, but he pushes on regardless, grinding against him from behind and dropping his hand lower to caress Hannibal’s thigh and pull him in Will’s direction. He gets the reaction he’s been hoping for, gasping when Hannibal pushes back, even if it’s just to tease him. Would he let him, really?

Something shifts at the end of the bed and a loud bark sends Will scrambling to sit up, nearly throwing both he and Hannibal overboard. His heart is thundering inside his chest at the sight of his dog, who might as well have just teleported for all Will knows. Winston’s tail swishes against blankets and he parts his jaws in a wide smile, panting and clueless.

“You ass,” Will says, pinching Hannibal’s arm. He's somehow surprised when he receives no reaction. “You planned that.”

“No. I was curious what you were doing.” Hannibal stretches out on the bed in response, looking satisfied while Will feels cheated. He explains when Will continues to give him a dirty look. “He woke before us, I heard him scratching at the door in the guest room. I let him out before he could do any damage and allowed him to join us here rather than stick his nose where it shouldn’t be, unsupervised.”

“Thank you,” Will says under his breath, staying right where he is, refusing to get out of bed with an obvious hard-on even if Hannibal felt it. He did feel it. He encouraged it. He would probably just stare at it, and Will would want to kill him.  

“I hope you’re properly amused,” Will adds after a minute of silence, searching for more casual reasons to remain put, but Hannibal is staring at him anyway and of course he’s pleased and he knows, why else would he be giving Will that almost-smile?

Will scrunches up his nose at him and turns his attention to Winston, patting the sheets until the dog rushes over, crouching on Will’s side of the bed and on his outstretched legs. Will runs his fingers through the fur on Winston’s neck, smirking to himself when he catches Hannibal’s frown in the corner of his eye. “Hey, Winston. Aren’t you shedding? Yeah, thought so. Good boy. Yes, roll on that.”

Eventually Hannibal takes pity on him, or excuses himself before he has a fit over the dog hair on his bed, dressing and vacating the room in silence. Likely to make something to eat, and less about giving Will his privacy. Despite the humiliation, Will hopes it’s the former, holding his stomach and fighting back the rumble that threatens to escape. Winston hops off the bed and trails after Hannibal, probably getting the same idea, and Will can’t help but smile at the sight. It’s nice.  

He finds his shirt on the floor, and his pants somewhere tucked away between the sheets, where he’d kicked them off last night and forgotten about them. He considers another bath, but shrugs the idea off and walks down the hall toward the guest bedroom in search of his phone.

He isn’t at all surprised with what waits for him, but it still brings his mood to a low.

 

**_Matt_ ** _  
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry jeez how many times do I gotta say it_

_I’m a jerk okay, I get it, I’ve been trying to say sorry since you took off. You looked really upset_

_I’m stupid and I’m a creep and I just sort of do whatever I’m told, ok? I don’t have much of a filter as it is_

_I really like you_

 

Will stares at the messages, scrolling up to find even more, but it isn’t an ungodly amount and the calls stopped soon after he got here last night. He reads them over again and hesitates on the last one, brushing his thumb across the screen and deciding whether he should dignify that with a response.

He can’t mean what Will thinks he means. No, Matt is his friend. Is he, though? He’s just sort of…there, if Will needs someone to talk to or Matt sees it fit to bother him again. Yes, he’s a friend, despite his intentions, which seem to be fueled by Abel and not Matt himself.

Keyword: seem.

It’s high time he started using people back, for his own protection if for nothing else.

 

**_Will_ ** _  
It’s fine. I had to cool off. We should meet again and clear some stuff up._

 

He hardly has time to brush his teeth and wash his face before his phone is blowing up again.

 

**_Matt_ ** _  
Yeah, cool!_

_When?_

 

There it is, that little monster called guilt, eating away at his nerves.

Will takes a minute to pull on his outfit from yesterday. He’ll borrow more clothes and change if he must, but they’re still relatively clean. Hannibal probably won’t see it that way, which is fine. Will has found he rather likes wearing his clothes.

 

**_Will_ ** _  
Maybe not today, I’m not sure._

**_Matt_ ** _  
Awesome, drop by the hotel or we’ll go eat or something, doesn’t matter to me. Movie?_

 

Will starts to pocket the phone, gritting his teeth when it vibrates again.

 

**_Matt_ ** _  
_ _:)_

 

Oh, come the fuck on. Will drops it onto the bed on his way out of the room. He thinks better of it when he reaches the doorway, sprinting back to tuck it under his discarded pajamas, not even sure why he’s hiding it, and then he follows the scent of breakfast downstairs.

He brought the scarf with him, recalling his train of thought from several hours ago. He knows what to expect; Hannibal will smell him before he even reaches the room, if he doesn’t hear him first. He tries to keep his footsteps light, anyway, feet padded in socks and no shoes as he approaches him while Hannibal is preparing something with his back turned.

Winston sits a few feet away tilting his head curiously at Will, who takes both ends of the scarf in his hands and throws it over Hannibal’s head, effectively lassoing him and pinning his arms together. Will pulls him back and Hannibal lets it happen, clearly aware but willing to play along, or at least indulge him in his fun.

“You’ll tear it,” he warns, not bothering to turn his head.

“Then don’t pull,” Will says, repeating drunken words spoken long ago.

“Of course.” He can almost hear Hannibal’s smile.

“It smells good already,” Will comments, unwilling to move or loosen his grip, instead pressing his face against Hannibal’s shoulder blade.

“Aren’t you hungry?” 

He weighs the pros and cons and stomach makes the final decision. Will lets the scarf drop so it can free Hannibal to continue unhindered. He sets it aside in a cleared area on the counter, returning his arms around Hannibal’s waist in place of it. If he’s being too tenacious or distracting, Hannibal doesn’t say so. Will watches him work with the knife for a while, faintly amazed with the skill involved in something as simple as chopping through vegetables.

He inhales the familiar scent in front of him, pressing his mouth against fabric. “Would you have let me?”

Hannibal glances over his shoulder. “Would I have allowed you to strangle me with my own wardrobe?”   

“Hah,” Will says dryly, but he’s starting to fidget. He put himself on the spot. He doesn’t know why he’s asking, if he’s trying to start something or if he just wants to put his fears to rest. He’s got to stop.

 _Oh, just get it over with._ “Take you to bed,” he says, because he can’t imagine actually saying _Make love_ without cringing, and it’s embarrassing enough that he explicitly, seriously said _Fuck me_ a few hours ago.

Hannibal stiffens, which honestly can’t mean anything good, confuses Will further when he relaxes a moment later and dismisses the question. “I did tell you I would teach you whatever you wished.”

Will guesses it’s good enough to be a yes, but it’s a tentative one.

“If Winston hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have let me?”

“I don’t know, perhaps I would have.”

Will can’t decide whether he should be offended at such a blatant taunt, or worry if he’s overstepped some important boundaries and this is a serious answer. Hannibal has always shown more interest in giving pleasure rather than receiving it, at least in Will’s company. 

“I sense some, um, hesitation,” Will says, no longer holding onto him so tight. “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“I mean, clearly you aren’t comfortable with – “

Hannibal whirls around and Will expects him to be irritated, but he just takes Will’s hands, looking a little exasperated but overall passive. “Will, respectfully, you have no idea what I am comfortable or not comfortable with. Not yet. Please trust me, and for your sake, stop making assumptions. I know when you are, you make it painfully obvious."

Will runs his tongue over his teeth, searching for something to say. Hannibal means it. Will is starting to recognize that even now, he still knows so little about him. It’s sobering, and very disappointing. “Tell me?” he prompts, hopeful.

“I will,” Hannibal reassures him.

 _Why do I keep pushing him?_ Will’s eyes dart away before he persists. “But will you tell me what happened, in your own words? Not Abel’s, not Matt’s. I shouldn’t have heard it from them in the first place. I should hear it from you. I want to know what really happened to you.” _What you did._

Hannibal fixes him with an odd look and gives him total silence. Will is fast running out of places to focus on that aren’t him. His face is burning under the scrutiny, and he’s scared to peek up and find the smoldering anger he knows must be there by now. He took it too far, should have left it alone. How many time has he asked, now?

Will takes a shameful step back, intending to be respectful and give him space, but the grip on his hands tightens and he doesn’t get any more than an arm’s length away before it locks onto his wrists, unforgiving. Will glances up, then, panic rising in his chest, but Hannibal is expressionless. He shows little more than a hint of curiosity.

“Nothing happened to me,” he says, his tone level, missing any sort of emotional or conversational cues for Will to pick up on. Will can’t figure out how to react. “A group of men carried out a slaughter at my family estate, killing my parents and my sister, and attempting to kill me.”  

“I’m sorry – “

Hannibal cuts him off without even raising his voice, just authoritative enough to make Will shut up. “Would you like to know the details? I imagine that’s what bothers you. Very well. They killed my father first, with a single gunshot to the head. I had dogs, too, I think I’ve told you this. They died trying to save my father's wife and her children. Very admirable, but they failed. I was hit over the head, knocked out but believed to be dead. While I was unconscious my mother was raped and killed. I only woke, or at least came to, after the attack. I dragged myself outside, into the field, and found my little sister, my Mischa, dead. They treated her as they treated my mother. She was so small, and she suffered.”

“Hannibal…” Will tries to pull away, horrified with the sheer  _deadpan_ delivery of all this, but Hannibal’s fingers tighten around him.

“I was told I suffered as well, but of course I don’t remember a thing.”

Will has nothing to say. 

“I spent several years in an orphanage. I was stubborn. I fought the bullies and refused to conform to the natural order of things, and understandably that led to me ultimately being cornered and beaten, often. At sixteen, I was taken in and raised by my Uncle Robertus and his wife. I don’t suppose you care to hear much of them. No, I suppose not. I learned as much as I could, attending school in France and traveling around Italy, becoming familiar with every street corner, until I was ready to enact my revenge. Do you want to know how I did it? I think you do.” 

“No, Hannibal, I think I should leave – “ Will glances down at Winston, who has approached and can’t seem to figure out what to do other than bark over them both and pace anxiously. Hannibal gives him one look, not uttering a single word, and Winston lies down. He obediently places his head on his paws.

Hannibal shifts his attention to Will once more, carrying on as though uninterrupted, his eyes still vacant. It scares Will more than if he had been openly furious. Why, _why_ did he choose to ignore how dangerous Hannibal could be, must have been? Is? He’s killed people. Why did he think he could do whatever he wanted with him, that he was safe from this?

He isn’t special.

“No, this is important to you, isn’t it? Don’t you want to know the end? None of this made me what I am today. I never loved my parents, not in the sense that you may have loved your father, or the way I was supposed to. Their deaths disgusted me, it was unjust, but it did not traumatize me. I was incapable of loving them, or so I’ve been told. I did love my sister. I’ve told you before, the trauma is not responsible. It might have helped me along, but it has done very little overall. I spent my early childhood taking an interest in how people worked, in how everything worked, in the objective and not the emotional. I mutilated animals to see firsthand what was on the inside. I did this before anything happened to me. I was always going to be what I am, it’s in my very nature. Why is this difficult to understand?”

“Hannibal!”

“You’ve been eager to know and you refused to wait, now I’ve given it to you. Are you satisfied?”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

Will is blinking hard, and he can no longer hide the tremor that has crept into his voice. He yanks on his arms again to free himself, wrists aching now, and Hannibal finally releases him. Nothing has happened, he hasn’t learned anything that he didn’t already _mostly_ know, some bits being new and unnerving, but he can’t deal with the _tone_ of it. It’s malicious in its emptiness. Something wet stains his cheek. Fuck.

He hears Hannibal exhale, short and audible, a blunted sigh. “Will…”

“No,” Will says, quickly shaking his head and turning on his heel to go. He’ll leave now. No, fuck, the fucking phone is upstairs, he can’t just leave it. He looks so stupid. Winston pads after him, low to the ground and tail hanging down, no longer curling over his back.

“That was impulsive – “

“You think?” Will spits over his shoulder, only wiping his face when he’s out of sight and scaling the staircase, disappearing into the guest room. Winston whimpers and noses at his leg while he pockets the phone and his wallet, and Will takes a moment to sit on the edge of the bed and collect himself. He holds Winston’s face in his hands and rubs him under the chin to let him know things are fine. Things aren’t fine, obviously, but he can at least pretend for the damn dog.

Is this what lies behind the veil? Nothing?

Hannibal is wise enough not to follow him upstairs, but when Will comes down he’s standing in the foyer, not a single hair out of place and his posture frustratingly calm, collected. Waiting for him, filled with as much patience as ever. Will avoids eye contact, busying his hands with pulling on his coat, fidgeting with the buttons and zippers he doesn’t actually need to adjust. He instinctively reaches for the scarf around his neck, but it’s not there. It’s still in the kitchen. It hurts not having it, even now.

“Will.”

He loses it.

“I see what happened with you and Alana, and all the rest. You got bored, right? It’s too hard to connect with people, isn’t it? I thought I had problems. Do you do this with everyone? I’m sorry I made things so difficult for you, God forbid I tell you how much you mean to me. I wanted to understand you, but no wonder. You don’t feel love, right? Isn’t that what you said? I mean, I knew there was something wrong with you, but – “

_Stop._

He forces himself to breathe, cursing and telling himself not to look, but he does it anyway and his heart aches all over again. More, now, because Hannibal looks genuinely apologetic, and Will can’t tell if it’s real or not. Is he even capable of meaning it? It feels like a slap in the face, whichever way it goes. 

“I think I need to be alone before I talk to you again.”

“I understand.”

 _Tell me you’re fucking sorry and kiss me, you fucking idiot_ , Will wants to scream, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t scream, or say anything.

“May I at least drive you home?”

Will hadn’t even considered the fact that he would still have to stand outside Hannibal's house, looking like a fool while waits for a cab to arrive. He’s the fucking idiot.

 _I’d rather ride with a stranger,_ part of him wants to hiss. Except no, he wouldn’t.

He’s already regretting the decision to leave, regretting storming out of the room, trying to be independent. It isn’t working and it’s pathetic and he could just admit it, right here, and they could talk it out like adults, because if he doesn’t do it now he’s going to go home and lock himself away and avoid ever talking about it again. 

He just _can’t_ , not if Hannibal doesn’t do his part, first.

“Yeah, sure.”

 


	22. Chapter 22

It’s eerily silent, save for Winston’s occasional whimpers and his fitful fidgeting. Will strokes through his fur, lingering behind the ears and in his fluffy cheeks, not minding how the dog climbed into his lap despite being too big for it. Will’s eyes are glued to the window, on the unfocused images blurring and swirling outside, changing with the movement of the vehicle. His mind is floating away, migrating to a numbness instead of the hot anxiousness he previously felt. It’s either a coping mechanism or he just can’t obsess over it anymore, can’t run it through his head again and can’t bother to open his mouth.

He startles at Winston licking his hand, taken aback by the sudden touch that jerks him into the present moment.

He’s almost home. He hasn’t said a word to Hannibal since they left. Hannibal hasn’t said anything either, but Will can feel his eyes stray from the road often, glancing over at Will in the passenger’s seat. He hadn’t complained when Will insisted on holding Winston, not once. He hadn’t even bothered to look displeased about it. Not a single frown, furrowing of the eyebrows, nothing; just quiet acceptance. It’s even worse and more infuriating than if he had told him no. Will bites down on his tongue, bristling at the sense of him being watched again, and refrains from spitting out something stupid.  

He wishes he would stop.

Everything is fuzzy, his heart rate is steadily rising the closer he comes to his apartment, and when Hannibal finally pulls over in the parking lot Will can’t move. He reaches for anything, all those little words flitting in front of his eyes, phrases and questions and pleads, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. He keeps his gaze pinned on his dog, getting lost in the brindle pattern of the fur, until Hannibal finally says something.

“It was childish of me.”

Will sucks on the inside of his cheek, mulling it over, but the verbal admittance only makes it hurt more. He spent most of the ride alternating between preparing himself for this conversation and possibly, maybe avoiding it. His old flighty nature is taking hold, urging him to reach for the door handle. His fingers grasp it and he pops it open, but he doesn’t leave yet.

Against his better judgement, he looks over his shoulder. Waiting for him is an expression full of nothing, shielded once again behind thick unbreakable walls. All that beautiful glory, those perfect bones and striking maroon eyes, and it’s wasted with a frozen cold lacing the edges of his features. Will might have agreed, forgiven him, kissed him, even begged to go back to the house, to crawl back into bed and lie with him for a while, to forget any of it ever happened. He could have let it go, if he had seen anything other than the deaf emptiness that greets him now. But he doesn’t.

Will twitches, his vision turning red, the frustration leaking right out of his fingertips as they tap nervously against the door. It’s heavy in the air, like a foul smell, and he can tell Hannibal feels it too, because his head tilts just slightly and his eyes scan Will over, evaluating. Inquiring. _“I mean, I knew something was wrong with you…”_

He can’t stand it.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Will says under his breath, unable to keep the hostility out of the words but hardly caring how cruel it sounds aloud.

“Will, I – “

“I’ve decided I don’t want to hear it,” he growls over his shoulder as he exits. He keeps the door open for Winston, who slinks out slow and cautious. It takes all his self-control to stand there and wait, and then to shut the door without slamming it, and lead Winston away without once glancing back. He doesn’t allow himself the pleasure. Maybe the pain.

 

* * *

 

He feeds his dog, starves himself and starts stripping, climbing into the shower with no plans to come out soon. The water is hot, beating hard against his skin and leaving it bright red, and he gets lightheaded and he’s tired of standing. He sits, bringing his knees up to his chest to wrap arms around his legs, and he fully expects to cry, but he surprisingly doesn’t. It’s puzzling, but he’s too mentally exhausted to put forth that sort of effort. He settles for feeling dazed instead. It’s hard to imagine how much things can change in less than twenty-four hours, and then change again.

But has it really changed? He knew, he knew from the start that there was something _off_ , with all of them but with Hannibal in particular, and he pursued it anyway. He had every chance in the world to stop what he was doing, to cut off all contact and avoid this. He just didn’t want to. He blatantly ignored all the signs, all those little blank stares and apathetic glances, the great lengths taken to shield emotion and reflect only what Will expected of him. Will knew all this already, even without the monologue.

Will was ready to accept him, fully, despite knowing what he did. It made him _feel_ good, knowing what he’d done, what he might be able to do again if he had to. He _liked_ it. It even turned him on. He kept asking, kept getting redirected, and all his ceaseless pestering finally got him exactly what he wanted. He was drawn to the power that Hannibal projected, but he wasn’t prepared to see even a glimpse of the real thing. He’s still drawn to it, fighting himself not to get out of the shower and fetch his phone, call Hannibal before he even reaches his house again. _Come back, I’ve changed my mind._

He was so different, so unique, overall otherworldly from anything else Will had ever experienced, would probably ever experience again. Beautifully tragic doesn’t cut it, it’s incorrect. If anyone is tragic, it’s Will. Horrendously beautiful would be the better choice of words.

Nothing has really changed at all, other than Will being forced to look at what he’s accepted and longed for, without the chance to play it off. _He’s a psychopath._ Right? Will runs over what he knows to be the signs and symptoms in his head, and plenty of them fit, but plenty of them don’t. What did he expect, really, considering where he met him? He had been asking for this, subconsciously maybe, but hadn’t he? What does that say about Will?

What does it say about him, that he’s still willing to ignore it all? 

He closes his eyes and rests his head on crossed arms, not surprised when his thoughts stray to gentle kisses and imagined caresses against his skin. Old ghosts of touches that both comfort and unnerve him further. None of it _feels_ feigned or empty, none of it ever has, even when he looked up and found himself staring at steel. It’s real, and honest in its own way. It’s complicated. In rare instances, he’s caught sight of it behind the screen. What he does see makes him melt.

_"Dear Will, have you any idea what you've gotten yourself into?”_

Yes, he does. He has for some time.

Somehow, he gathers the strength to wash himself before he finally exits the shower, and promptly crawls under the sheets of his bed. Still dripping. He holds his phone close, checks for messages or missed calls. Nope. Will screws his eyes shut tight and buries his face into a pillow, tightening his hold on the phone. If something happens, it will wake him, he insists. Until then, he’ll sleep, ignoring the growling in his stomach that turns into nausea and the voice in the back of his head telling him he needs to find something productive to do. Not sleep, sleep will deepen the rabbit hole he’s fallen into.

But sleep he does, and he dreams of the stag again, reaching out to touch it and tell it, “Long time no see.”

He watches it go.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up sweating a little, finding the problem to be his dog pressing against his back, half threatening to shove Will over the edge of the bed. He considers getting up, his face incredibly warm from the light cast by the setting sun in the window. He’s managed to sleep all day, thanks to his tired limbs and pulled muscles, not to mention the emotional aches and pains. Ugly reminders of something much nicer, somewhere else he could be. Instead he’s stuck in this dingy apartment, letting himself wallow in his misery alone. Head throbbing in time with his pulse, he checks his phone. His heart sinks low and barrels down into his stomach.

Nothing.

 _You did tell him to fuck off_ , he chastises himself.

Will rolls onto his back, moving Winston over for just a little more room. His dog complies, though huffing and making a loud sigh, as though he too is exasperated with Will’s moping. Will doesn’t know why Winston hasn’t been bothering him to go out yet. It’s been several hours. He takes a deep breath, readying himself before he pushes himself up and out of bed to pull on fresh clothes and tie his shoes.

By the time he tosses his coat over his shoulders and reaches for the leash sitting on a desk, Winston is on his feet and loping over eagerly, his tail wagging wildly and whipping up a gust of wind behind him. He’s been waiting patiently, unless Will slept through any noses poking him in the side. Will takes him on a short walk, just enough for Winston to be satisfied, though he finds himself apologizing to him anyway as they head back for the apartment. “I just can’t today, buddy,” he explains with a yawn. For one, his thighs hurt.

But he doesn’t want to sit at home, passing the time by napping on and off, tossing and turning miserably, or browsing the internet, further losing faith in humanity until it’s time for bed again. It momentarily fascinates him that he doesn’t want to drink, either. Merely the thought of it makes him feel sick. Oh God, if he can’t _drink_ , he can’t stay home. He needs to clear his mind, get some perspective outside of pouting in his bedroom, like a lovelorn teenager who just had his heart dramatically broken into a thousand sharp shards.

 

 ** _Will_**  
_I can hang out tonight, if you want._

 ** _Matt_**  
_Hey, neat!_  
_What do you wanna do?_

 

What’s something easy? He doesn’t want to talk, he just wants a reason to waste time, but he doesn’t want to get hammered. He clings to the only option left, as much as he doesn’t feel doing that, either.

 

 **_Will_ ** _  
Still up for a movie?_

 **_Matt_ ** _  
Always, idk why you even ask that. Yeah!_

 

They make plans to meet at the nearest showing of a movie he couldn’t care less about. Will realizes he probably should have picked one with a longer distance from his apartment, because at least then he could justify getting a cab. Now he’s got to walk, and he really doesn’t want to. Shit, he doesn’t want to do _anything_. He fills his stomach for the first time since yesterday and pushes past the overwhelming desire to sleep it off. He curses himself silently, checking in the mirror to be sure that the collar of the thick sweater he’s wearing covers up the marks on his throat. He can’t find any spare scarves, but he wouldn’t want to wear one inside the theater anyway. He misses that stupid red piece of shit, even knowing he’d have to suffer through Hannibal’s scent wafting up into his nose for as long as he wore it. He could deal with that, maybe. Maybe not.

Matt is already waiting for him when he finally trudges up to the theater, and the first thing Will notices is that he looks worse off than the night before. He’s caring for himself, but his emotional and mental state must be very questionable. _What is Abel doing to you?_ Because of course it’s Abel’s fault; Will sincerely doubts Matt has anyone else he talks to in this town, aside from Will.

Somehow the bruised circles under his eyes have gotten even darker, and Will feels an uncomfortable twinge of guilt for ignoring him until this morning. He looks like he just woke up too, but he brightens immensely at the sight of Will and gives an enthusiastic wave. He takes a couple of steps, then thinks better of it. Still struggling with keeping a respectable distance then, but trying his best to remember. Will can appreciate it.

“Damn, Will, you look like shit!”

Never mind.

“Sorry, sorry,” Matt apologizes with a mumble, staring at his shoes in shameful embarrassment. His mouth works faster than his brain, but at least he’s aware of it on some level. “I just mean you look like something happened. I don’t know, sad, or some shit. You okay?” He glances up and his eyes linger on Will’s neck, silently noting the disappearance of the scarf. Will doesn’t have to be a genius to know that Matt is aware of who it came from, and he doesn’t miss the relief that flits over Matt’s angular face now that it’s gone.

Will runs his tongue over his lips and inhales slowly. He starts to wonder if this was a mistake, and now he’s feeling self-conscious. Are his clothes mismatched or is his face just that messed up? Is it so obvious? No one ever notices this kind of thing. He must be slipping. “I fell asleep after I took a shower, hair dried weird.” Yeah, that’ll do. “When does it start?”

Matt seems more than happy to move past the subject, throwing a look over his shoulder to the theater where crowds of people are filing in. It should make Will nervous, he’s never liked being in public, but at this point…It really doesn’t matter. Once he remembers the right time, Matt says, “In ten minutes, I think.” It’s exactly that, because Will planned to get here right before started. Less reason to stand around chatting. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” Will sighs, doing his best to sound reassuring and not entirely depressed. He realizes he’s been avoiding eye contact, so he corrects it. Painful as it is. “Yes, I’m fine, it’s just stress. Let’s go,” he adds quickly, running a hand through his hair to hopefully tame some of the curls if that’s part of the problem. It isn’t. It must be in his face, and he can hardly do anything about that. A smile would appear so unnatural right now, possibly even terrifying. He steps away.

Matt frowns, but eventually he follows. His attention never shifts from Will even as they go inside, and it’s grating on Will’s nerves and he’s about to say something foolish and snappy when Matt finally mutters, “It’s not because of what I said yesterday, right?”

“No.” Will smooths himself over, glancing around for the right showing. He forgot where the usher first pointed them. Fuck.

“I just, yeah, we never really got to discuss that. I’m sorry I said anything.”

“Matt.”

“Believe it or not, I really just didn’t even think about it – “

“It’s fine,” Will says sternly, finally turning his head to _really_ , really look at him. He’s struck by the honesty he finds there, and the rest of his words die in his throat.

Matt is staring at him like a scolded dog, stuck between two people telling him two very different things. Will and Abel. He even resembles a beaten mutt, to a degree, ordered and misdirected too many times, with anxious eyes pinned directly on Will, always. Will has a hard time equating him to the hawk of a man he met not so long ago, strong and proud and ultimately fearless and much too touchy, when he’s been reduced to this. He’s just a kid, not much older than Will, with a few minor issues. He obsesses over serial killers as a hobby, and he’s got no friends, and he’s a little weird. He’s not inherently dangerous or bad, he’s just susceptible to manipulation by potentially dangerous people. Will can relate to that.

“I’m sorry, is all,” Matt mumbles, his olive-colored eyes flicking from the floor to Will and back to the floor again.

“I know,” Will says, and puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder, ignoring the open surprise it provokes. “I just don’t want to talk about it. It’s not that.” Matt just in response. Will tentatively lets go, wondering if that was inappropriate or if Matt just isn’t used to touch that isn’t instigated by him. Probably that. Will tears his gaze away to focus on the task at hand. “Now, where the hell were we supposed to go?”

“Erm, this way, maybe.”

“Right. Oh, _no._ ”

“What?”

He hears the uncontained, grossly _jubilant_ laughter and familiar voices before he spots who they belong to, and they somehow have no trouble in picking him out of the crowd despite his urgent prayers to continue being his normal bland and unnoticeable self. He’s so plain and small and yet Beverly is the first to scream out his name, nearly shoving someone into a wall in her excitement to get to Will, who has no choice but to welcome her with open arms and gritted teeth. She knocks the very breath out of him, tugging him close and hugging him harder than he expects. He’s left a little stunned, almost leaning into her when she pulls away to look him over.

“Will, I haven’t heard from you in forever, asshole,” Bev says, launching into a lecture right away as her eyes travel down his body judgmentally. “You look sloppy, are you taking care of yourself? Do I need to have a talk with someone?” She narrows her eyes in suspicion.

“Uh,” Will says smartly. He can see Alana Bloom nervously making her way over, with another young woman in tow who looks intimidatingly stoic. He feels like she might be sizing him up, whereas Alana must think he’s rather pathetic, because she looks at him with a pity usually given to lost puppies and not to young men.

“Who’s this?” Beverly asks, turning her attention to Matt, who all but shrinks under her scrutiny.

“Matt,” Will says just as Mat responds with, “Matthew Brown?”

Will tosses him a look, and is relieved to find that he doesn’t seem as awkward as Will most certainly does. Maybe that’s a bad sign. But Matt doesn’t do anything other than smile in a friendly way. He doesn’t offer to start passing out hugs, so it might be okay.

Following a short series of introductions (“Hi Matt, I’m Beverly, this is Alana, and Margot! Margot, this is Will!”) it becomes known that they’ve all come to see the same film. It’s some flick Will honestly can’t even remember the summary of, but will probably make everyone else cry at the end. He’s practically vibrating with impatience and his typical anxiousness around others when Beverly devises the _lovely_ idea of all of them sitting together. Will doesn’t have an actual reason to say no, so he gives a noncommittal shrug while Matt brightly tells them, “Sure, why not?” because of course, nothing could go wrong. So long as Matt doesn’t start talking about Jeffrey Dahmer in the middle of the movie, which Will absolutely does not trust him not to do. He might find a kindred spirit in Beverly, though.

Will sits wherever they want him, which turns out to be in the middle. Matt is on his right conversing eagerly with Beverly and Alana is on his left, whispering something to Margot that makes her laugh. Will is stuck with himself, and is entirely aware of how this looks. He goes straight into full-on retreat mode, and starts searching for excuses to leave. Just as he gathers up the strength to do it and lands on a perfect idea, Alana sets a hand over his. It’s a miracle he doesn’t jump or jerk away. She leans in, and he has no choice but to oblige and do the same.

“How do you know each other?” she asks innocently, meaning Matt.

“Uh.” _Oh, come on now, think._ “Book club?” He could have done better, but that’s what pops out, so he runs with it and gives a confirming nod. _Yes, that will be my final answer._

Alana tilts her head at that, but she offers him a warm smile. “I see. I don’t mean to pry, I’m just wondering, if…”

Will can see where this is going, and the last person he wants to talk about it with is a gorgeous Alana Bloom, the (most?) recent ex of Hannibal Lecter.

Here it comes. “Are you and Hannibal still together? I haven’t heard from him in a while. I’m sorry if this is insensitive, considering, you know. He’s still a friend, I just worry about him.”

“We’re, yeah,” Will splutters, appreciative of the dark. He’s blushing for all sorts of reasons, emotions ranging from hot embarrassment to panicky frustration. “No, Matt is just a friend.”

“Oh, good,” she says, and she really means it, she looks genuinely relieved. Will wishes he could dislike her, because that would make this so much easier, but her eyes are kind and she’s pretty and he’s never been good with girls, or guys, or anyone at all. His rudeness doesn't come so easily around the gracious. “That’s good to hear, I’m happy for you two. Listen, I’m sorry if this is weird. I really don’t have any hard feelings. I’m naturally a bit on the paranoid side, and I’m sorry our last meeting went…the way it did. I should stop apologizing now, right? I will.”

Will can’t just nod this one away. Something itches and he could swear he’s sweating. “Really, I don’t have any hard feelings, Alana,” he says, and he’s surprised that it comes out as calm as it does. “I, um, are you happy? How are you?” Genius.

“I’m fine,” Alana says, and gestures meaningfully to the girl beside her. Will notices their hands locked together, their tangled fingers and the fond way they glance at each other. _Oh._ He feels like an idiot.

Just as he gives her a smile he’s knocked in the side by a pointy elbow, nearly crying out from the weight behind it, and he whirls around to see Matt on his other side grinning and Beverly beaming proudly at them both. “Your friend is totally crazy,” Matt says, fighting to speak between laughs, and Will just takes his word on it because he’s missed that entire conversation. But it must have gone well, Beverly seems to have out-weirded Matt.

It’s a relief when the rest of the lights go out and the theater fills itself with the quiet sounds of popcorn munching and drink sipping, and his friends(?) start settling down. He won’t have to talk anymore, not until it’s over, unless someone leans in and comments something he’ll have to nod or smile to. His heart rate gradually slows and he feels like he can breathe again. Murmuring an apology, he shrugs himself out of his coat, intending to fold it over his lap, but something tumbles out of a pocket and hits the floor with a high-pitched ring. Great. He thought he had his keys in his jeans. Thankfully it doesn’t go far, so he leans over to pick it up. The big screen in front of them lights up, revealing a single key in his palm, unfamiliar and not one of his own.

He lets out a long breath.

 _You jerk_ , he thinks weakly, and he holds onto it for most of the film.

 

* * *

 

Will doesn’t pay much attention to the actual movie, and by the end of it he’s sure the inside of his lip is bleeding profusely from gnawing on it the entire time. He can taste the iron, a steady little stream that gives him something to do while he waits for the final credits to roll. He’s one of the very first people on his feet and pulling on his coat, barely keeping his patience while the others gather themselves and head for the exit in a more tame manner. Matt says something to him, most likely a critical complaint or a joke, but Will hasn’t been able to hear most of what he said the past couple of hours. He mumbled agreements and gave him a few weak laughs, but his mind has been somewhere else, with someone else. 

He panics a little when they get outside and someone suggests going out to dinner. He doesn't have time for that. “I have to drop by somewhere,” he says hastily, regretting the urgency in his tone when all four heads swivel around to look at him with mixed expressions of confusion and surprise. “Uh, sorry,” he adds, taking a step back. “It’s kind of important, or I’d join you. Rain check?”

Beverly gives him a confused look that tells him she’ll be texting him several paragraphs ASAP, and she’ll be expecting answers, but she gives him a cheery goodbye anyway and a hug that last a little too long. She’s worried about him. He makes it a point to hug her back. Alana and Margot wave him away and wish him a good night, looking much more comfortable with him than before, but Matt just stares awkwardly as Will turns to leave. Beverly drapes an arm over Matt’s shoulder and demands his complete attention, expertly observing that Will wants to be alone and Matt has nowhere else to go. _Bless you, Bev._

 _You owe me_ , her eyes say.

Will flags down a cab and says the address as soon as he gets his head in the door. He can’t sit still, drumming his fingers on his knees and looking out of the windows, at the unchanging night sky, almost falling over when his phone vibrates suddenly against his thigh.

 

 ** _Matt_**  
_This is like the third time you’ve outright ditched me, you know :(_  
_Hard not to take it personal_

Yes, he knows, but he doesn't have time to feel like shit right now. _Come up with something._

****

**_Will_ ** _  
Emergency. I swear, it won’t happen again._

 ** _Matt_**  
_Yeah yeah I’ll hold you to that. You did look kind of distracted_  
_Hope everything’s fine_

Will closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the seat.

 _I’m only dropping by, we’ll apologize and make out and I’ll go straight home, back to Winston. Everything will be better_.

Or something could go horribly wrong. He could get argumentative or Hannibal could lose his temper again, become legitimately angry this time. Will tries his best not to consider that as a possibility, but the closer he gets, the more he starts to fret. Will should have heard him out this morning in the parking lot, he could have been getting ready to say anything. He was clearly sorry. Will was sorry, too. Why did he have to complicate it, and run away from him?

He arrives, stepping out of the road with the slow haze of a dream, and advances to the front door with his heart bashing itself wildly against his chest. Most of the lights are still flicked on inside, and it’s not even late. Will paces a few steps and looks up at the stars one last time before knocking. He walks back and forth until enough time has passed for him to knock again, and he’s growing concerned when the door still doesn’t open.

He psyches himself up for a call, but even that goes unanswered.

Maybe he should leave. He starts to, feeling dejected…

Abel.

Will whirls himself around to the front door again. He doesn’t see any sign of trouble, but he didn’t notice anything yesterday either, until he saw the blood firsthand on Hannibal’s face. He unlocks the door himself and steps inside, shutting it behind him soundlessly. Quieter than he imagined he could manage, he inches toward the kitchen only to find it empty. It looks and smells recently cleaned, the scent of disinfectant fresh in the air. No broken dishes or bashed in cabinets, no trace of blood on the floor.

Of course, if there is no imminent danger, his mind sets to work coming up with scenarios of a different kind.

He can hear music. It’s not coming from upstairs, which is faintly comforting. He locates it in the study and cautiously approaches the open doors on light feet, listening. It’s in French, and it’s incredibly loud. Will wets his lips and nervously rounds the corner, a small shock rushing through his body while his eyes strain to find anything in the near darkness, and finally land on a form laid out on the sofa. It’s unmoving. For a wild moment, Will half expects someone to come up from behind and grab him, but nothing of the sort happens and he can hear Hannibal breathing softly.  

He’s fucking _asleep._

He’s positioned a bit oddly, one arm draped over his stomach and his head tucked into the elbow of his other arm, and he still manages to look dazzling in the rays of the golden lamplight and the flickering fire. Will presses his back against a wall, letting out the breath he’d been holding, and watches him. He looks so unguarded and unlike himself, his lips parted just slightly and every strong muscle now at a complete rest. It makes him look delicate, plucked right out of a painting Will could probably find in this very room, if not the rest of the house.

All that suspense, and Hannibal is fucking snoozing, unharmed and clueless. It doesn’t seem right, though. Will keeps expecting to be heard, or smelled, _noticed;_ but Hannibal does nothing. There’s a mess of objects around him, books and sketching paper and writing utensils scattering the floor, and it’s then that Will spots the empty wine glass among the rest of the stuff. He stalks into the room and finds the source of the music, hesitating as he looks down at the…is it called a phonograph? It looks old and breakable and he shouldn’t be touching it. He figures out how to turn it off, and he can hear Hannibal stirring almost immediately, mumbling something that sounds close to a curse in a foreign language.

Will tosses his coat in the nearest chair, grasping the key and holding it out expectantly as Hannibal wakes. He doesn’t bother closing the distance.

“He returns,” Hannibal announces with a deep sigh, blinking a few times before lifting his head and pushing himself up. Will hates the way he does it so gracefully, even with the disoriented sway and the tufts of hair that stick up in all the wrong directions. How dare he? Will is tormented by it. “Will, I see you found your key,” Hannibal adds, and it might have passed as intimidating if it weren’t for the slurring and the thickness of his accent.

“You’re drunk,” Will notes, and finds that this greatly intrigues him.

Hannibal blinks slowly, seeming to compose himself a little more as he sits upright and leans easily against the cushions. Stretching his legs out, making himself comfortable. Will isn’t sure what to do with himself in the interim, his arm dropping and hand slipping the key into his jeans while Hannibal studies him closely. “Will you come here?” he asks, catching Will off guard. 

 _Yes._ Will draws near, flinching when a hand reaches for and grasps his wrist, but it’s gentle. Will sees something like hurt flashing across Hannibal’s face, and he’s so stunned by it that he doesn’t even think of resisting again.

“Please?”

He freezes.

 _Hannibal?_ Will tries not to gawk and allows himself to be eased forward and into his lap, mortified by how natural it feels to be here again. He blushes at the hand that rests in the small of his back, the other reaching to cup his cheek. Sheepishly, Will lays his fingers over Hannibal’s. He doesn’t refuse the closeness. He would be ashamed with how fast he falls into it, but he's mystified by the small  _Please?_ that had been uttered previously. It's unlike him. 

“May I look at you?” He's quiet, demanding all of Will's attention.

 _What are you asking me for?_ Will faces him, his body giving an uncontrollable shiver in response to the way Hannibal stares back. It isn’t hiding anything anymore, and now Will can’t take it. _It’s the wine_ , Will reasons, but the blood colored eyes burning holes through his skin are filled to the brim with unrestrained emotion. It reminds him of the enchantment he saw in him last night, this time without any barriers to hide behind. It worships each curve and every single indentation in Will’s skin. Will closes his eyes as fingers brush his cheek and sweep through his hair, lingering often.

“You’re magnificent, Will. Fascinating and beautiful, a force to be reckoned with. I’m at a loss.”

Will swallows and grasps the arm belonging to the hand that has now moved to rest against his hip, but it’s innocent and only exploratory. It doesn’t push, doesn’t even suggest it. He eases up. “Why are you telling me?” _What are you telling me?_ It takes a long time to get an answer.

At last, “You make me feel what I would have forgotten. You awaken what has long been asleep, and some of which I am unfamiliar with –  I am not certain what I should do about that,” Hannibal says honestly, but he sounds torn. Deflated.

Will opens his eyes, once again thrown by the affection that waits for him, the way Hannibal is somewhat flushed and so very _human_ here, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, his throat revealed and vulnerable. His pupils dashing all over Will hurriedly, as though he might disappear at any moment. “Were you waiting for me?” Will inquires.  

“I had hoped you might come.” Hannibal leans in tentatively, perhaps expecting Will to draw away from him. He drops his gaze to Will’s sweater, and then rests his head against it while Will stares down at him in astonishment. Dumbly, Will wraps his arms around him and squeezes when Hannibal tightens his grip on Will, until the two are tightly knit together and inseparable. “Will you forgive me?” Hannibal asks, his voice muffled by the fabric and very hesitant, dripping with an unmistakable misery.

Will senses he is missing something important, a much deeper meaning to his distress, or maybe Hannibal is just wasted and this is how he acts. He nods, then reassures him aloud, pulling away so that he can kiss him. Hannibal is not himself, or perhaps he is _more_ himself now than he has been. He’s responding a bit late and without focus, needing direction from Will. It feels passionate this way, fueled by relief and arousal, nearly blind. Will winces at the tongue brushing against his, warm and invasive and exciting. His stomach jolts. Will is going to end up on the floor at this rate, all too aware of the growing need between them.

“Hannibal…”

“Beloved.”

His heart misses a beat. _Say that again._

“Come home with me,” Will breathes, partially to avoid being taken right here in the study, and because he’s almost certain Hannibal needs to be put to bed soon. He wants Hannibal at his side, safe with him and Winston for the rest of the night. They can figure out what to do about class tomorrow when Will is dealing with Hannibal’s hangover, just happy to have him. "Please." 

"Yes." 

 


	23. Chapter 23

Will meant to be a perfect gentleman.

He planned to put him to bed, to have him sleep off his drunkenness at Will’s place. Will would skip class, dedicate the day to taking care of him. It was as good an excuse as any. But Hannibal is having none of it and Will surrenders to his wishes, falling too easily for the kind and gentle kisses that trail his cheeks and the edges of his mouth while he juggles his keys and grasps blindly for the doorknob. Will hardly has time to turn the key in the lock before Hannibal is pushing them inside, kicking the door shut behind them. It’s loud. Final. Will is assaulted again in the front room by a desperate mouth that seeks out his own as if this is a matter of life and death. Winston brushes against their legs eagerly, jumping up to greet them in such an innocent and happy manner that Will reaches around Hannibal to pet his dog in the middle of the chaos. He almost starts laughing out of pure joy at the incredibly domestic scene this creates.

Hannibal must be entering the ridiculously wasted stage of intoxication, if that’s indeed what this is. Will was able to fend him off before, but he can’t now. The enthusiasm is contagious. Will wishes he could be stronger, could insist on sleep, but Hannibal’s mouth is demanding and it tastes expensive, holding faint traces of what he consumed, and his tongue methodically strokes the inside of Will’s mouth until Will’s legs are shaking and he has no choice but to retreat into the bedroom and close the door behind them. _I’m sorry Winston, I’ll try to be quiet,_ he promises silently, knowing full well he might break it.

Hannibal was quiet, even contemplative for most of the ride home. He averted his gaze, he kept his hands to himself. He said very little. Something had changed outside the apartment, perhaps it had clicked; he’s kissing Will relentlessly now, as though he’s been waiting for this forever, starved of it for centuries and not for the sad reality of less than a day. He knows exactly what to do to make Will cave, to start sinking weak into his arms. It’s clumsy at the same time, which is out of the ordinary for him, and that alone is also charming in its own way. Will is beginning to feel dizzy himself, becoming wobbly and desperate for the oxygen he can only gulp down between the charged exchanges, praying it’s enough to keep him conscious.

He’s backed against a wall, helpless in the dark, and it only makes the touch traveling under his clothes that much more noticeable. It steals his breath away. He’s lost his coat and kicked off his shoes, and he assumes by the shuffling noises that Hannibal is attempting to do the same, but it’s proving a little difficult without light. Will makes a hopeful dive for the cheap lamp waiting at his bedside, busting his knuckles during the attempt and cursing loudly before he finally gets it right, and they both recoil and hiss from the sudden shine that fills the room. What’s happening here is far from elegant, it’s rushed and childish, which is exciting and different.

“Forgive me,” Hannibal pleads in an alarmingly husky voice, his words slurred and accent thicker than before. Could it be from want, too? It sends shivers down Will’s spine even after they reconnect. A hungry mouth sucks on his tongue, switches to travel down his jaw and hover over his bare throat. He suddenly can’t remember what was supposed to forgive Hannibal for. Teeth pinch at his skin and pull, threaten to break it, but they don’t dare. Angry red marks develop while Will gasps at the sensation and fights to gain some semblance of control over the situation. He’s never seen him like this.

“Yes, I forgive you,” Will says, and then he’s knocked over, forced onto his back in the middle of the bed. Not good. Hannibal has him pinned, covers him entirely, and Will is finding it hard to say no, to insist on wiser choices when Hannibal’s groin is grinding against his, and in such a determined fashion. He’s fitted himself between Will’s thighs, pushing down on his body and trapping him. Will doesn’t have the strength to fight back, doesn’t even have the sense. He doesn’t want to. He’s too curious, too puzzled by the behavior, eager to see more. Gentle as it is, it’s not patient, not at all. He likes that.

His already strained muscles are screaming. Still sore, begging for mercy, but he can’t allow it, he can’t turn this away. “Where did all this come from?” he breathes out, into Hannibal’s mouth, and the answer is a mixture between a groan and a growl. Oh, God. “How long did you wait for me tonight?” he tries, and his entire body shudders when eager hands slide under his shirt and lift it, making way for Hannibal to lean down and press his mouth to Will’s bare stomach. Will involuntarily flinches away from the touch, jaw slack while lips kiss his navel and teeth grasp at the skin there, threatening to go lower. _Did you really think I was gone? Is this desperation, fear of loss? Or is this just manipulation? Is this really you, or what you want me to see?_

Maybe it’s all those things.

Hannibal is unbuttoning Will’s jeans without asking, but Will isn’t saying no. He watches. It’s almost endearing, how Hannibal struggles with the self-assigned project, obviously too affected by however much wine he previously drank to do this properly or with any sort of dignity. His fingers are numb and awkward, and Will reaches between them to help, his hands lingering over Hannibal’s to try and calm him. It doesn’t have to be fast, they can go slow. Will can feel him shivering, twitching, often. He might not even know he’s doing it, and it’s not his fault. He’s too far gone, fumbling and getting frustrated with his lack of control, so Will pushes himself up on his elbows and connects their lips in the hopes of stabilizing him. If he could just convince him…

“Hannibal, lie down for me.”

“But—?“

“Just trust me, okay?”  

Shockingly, it’s that easy. Perhaps he’s simply relieved to have some guidance, happy to hand control over to Will, rather than waste his time fighting to gain it when it’s clearly impossible. Hannibal allows Will to push him on his back, a little too compliant, his head flopping back against the mass collection of pillows. Will considers straddling him. It’s the safest route, it’s what they’ve been most comfortable with so far, it’s almost been instinctual. But not tonight. Will eases his way between Hannibal’s legs, slowly and gradually despite the fabric that still separates them, wanting to be careful. He waits for the rejection, the stern look that will tell him no _, back off_ , but he’s met with absolutely zero resistance. Hannibal’s breath catches once or twice, but otherwise he stares up at Will with nothing but desire. Will is feeling the same, softening at the sight of him; tousled, his trembling so damn noticeable, expression so pure. Open. Will almost forgets how terrifying he can be, but this couldn’t be the same man. He’s so vulnerable beneath Will now, his lips parting ever so slightly when Will leans down to kiss him, ready to accept whatever he’s given. Is this what Will looks like, to him? He can finally see the appeal.

“Did you think you had lost me?” Will asks, watching how maroon eyes close when their foreheads press together, noses just brushing. It’s almost timid. Can’t be. Will tugs the sweater off him, smirking when Hannibal doesn’t seem to care that he throws it aside without folding it. Not a peep. Oh, this is precious. How fragile he seems now, submissive and pliable to Will’s every wish and whim. They fit together perfectly, two pieces of a puzzle that miraculously match in whatever way they want to place themselves. This will change tomorrow, won’t it? It’ll be more of the fixed stares, the blank looks, the deflecting shields over the eyes. But…maybe not.

It’s almost frightening, what drives him at this very second, prompting him to keep asking. It doesn’t feel like him.

He’s picked it up from the best.

Will lifts his head, waits for Hannibal to open his eyes again and look at him. “Do you want me?”

“Will, _yes._ ”

He knows he’s playing with fire this time, and he’s still willing to take the risk.

“Tell me you need me,” Will whispers into his ear, ignoring the sudden hardness between them on Hannibal’s part. It’s a delicious response, but he won’t gift him with his attention just yet. This is for all the mockery, all the sweet and toying questions when Will needed more, when Hannibal watched him writhe and wriggle beneath him like a worm. He tilts his head close to hear how Hannibal mumbles foreign words that Will doesn’t understand, the utterance of them reaching a high-pitched sort of desperation, his hips jerking up to meet Will’s in silent confirmation. Hoping it’s good enough. It’s not.

“Nice try, but I can’t hear you,” Will teases, because he’s enjoying this, and Hannibal is in no state to punish him for his arrogance this time. _I’m as stubborn as you are, and I think you like that. On some level._

“I need you, Will,” comes the admittance, the voice behind it breaking mid-sentence and Will doesn’t care if this is a trick, if this is some sort of sick attempt to get him back. He _loves_ it, even if it is. He’ll play. He could insist on making love here, on making as much noise as possible to spite the neighbors, to declare his affection for him to the whole world. But he can only do so much for him now, so Will rests against him and moves his hands between them, tugging at fabric.

“Please tell me what I am to you,” he mumbles urgently, slipping his fingers under the waist of Hannibal’s pants. He lingers on his sharp hips, tracing the distinct edges and digging into the bone. This might be a low move, since Hannibal has already told him once tonight. Will just wants to hear it again. He’ll ask again tomorrow, if he can’t say it now. It aches, he wants to hear it so much, but he can’t make him do it. He can only ask. Cling to the hope. _Call me your beloved._

“ _Mylimasis_ ,” Hannibal groans, and Will could melt. He’s getting an idea of what that word might mean. “Please.”

If this is all an act, Will applauds him for his efforts. It most certainly could be, a worthy performance to win Will over and regain his devotion. Will stops caring, eagerly unzipping the barrier in his way.  

“You’re dangerous for me,” Will says, flushing as the realization hits him once again, with as much force as last night. He _likes_ it.

Will wants to remove his own clothes, to grind bare skin against skin, but he will wait. Hannibal must ask for this himself. But he can give him something else. Will hasn’t done this to another man, but it won’t be all that different from doing it to himself. He’ll learn what makes him feel good and what makes him feel even better. Hannibal doesn’t seem deterred by the lack of experience, blowing out his breath hard when Will gets his fingers around his now throbbing dick and pulls it out into the open. He’s thick in his hand, leaking already, and Will has only just touched him. Instead of feeling intimidated, Will finds himself proud. Thrilled by the sway he holds over this unpredictable, aggressive predator who has now been reduced to a whimpering pushover in his hand. 

“That doesn’t bother you,” Hannibal retorts after some time, but he’s winded and struggling to ground himself, falling with nothing to grab onto. His fingers clutch tight in the sheets. Will is just surprised that he found his voice. “You’re like me.” Hannibal inhales sharply, teeth clenched, and he throws his skull back into the insultingly soft cushions while Will strokes him. His thumb lingers over the head, pressing down to suppress the pleasure until he’s sure Hannibal will hold this against him tomorrow, if he can remember it at all. He’ll make him remember.

“Did you miss me, Hannibal? Do I really mean this much to you?”

“ _Will…_ ”

“I’m sorry. I won’t ask too much of you,” Will reassures him, leaning down to kiss his exposed stomach, and all the muscles beneath him tense at once in alarm. Hands snap tight to his wrists, halting him in everything.

“No.”

Will looks up. He’s discouraged by the grim expression that awaits him. Hannibal regards him with a certain distance, his eyes glazed by bliss but his mouth set in a thin line, the rest of him struggling not to respond to Will’s touch. It’s almost a glare. Will’s heart sinks. They had been making such progress. _No, I can’t lose him._

“…Let me,” Will says, hesitant, bravado abandoned and replaced by sincerity. “Please, I want to take care of you. Give me one chance.” His breath is flowing hot on Hannibal’s waist, fingers still wound around him, and he hopes this gives some encouragement. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Until tonight, Hannibal has been aloof. With his usual confines missing he’s beautiful, shaking under him and wanting to be touched, even as he stubbornly turns the opportunity away. If he could just trust him. Will can make him feel the way Will felt here, not so long ago, under Hannibal’s confident direction. “Do you remember the first time you really touched me? You told me I wasn’t vulnerable, that it wasn’t weak of me to take what I want. You made me feel in control. Tell me now, do you want this?”

Hannibal relaxes beneath him gradually, and Will’s wrists are freed. Fingers run through his curls, rubbing his scalp and traveling down the side of his cheek and along his jaw until they reach his lips. It’s working. “You are so lovely, Will,” Hannibal sighs, and Will opens his mouth, taking the finger inside and delighting in the cut-off gasp it provokes. Hannibal’s tone drifts low, Will fighting not to smirk around the digit as he sucks, tasting salt. He’s getting his way. “And so incredibly naïve,” Hannibal adds, dark. “You still don’t know what I’m capable of. I’m tempted to show you.”

_You’ve done much more than what you’ve told me, haven’t you?_

“Show me,” Will says, and withdraws only to slide to the end of the bed.

Will being proud is an understatement. He is downright _pleased_ with himself when he summons side Hannibal hasn’t permitted him to see until now. Will might have felt for the neighbors, or at least for his dog, had he not been so enthralled with the noises Hannibal makes in response to Will’s mouth. It doesn’t matter how loud they get, he’s going to keep them coming.

 

* * *

 

It _was_ manipulation, in a sense. It would have been no matter the circumstances. Hannibal doesn’t feel bad for that, not while Will is enjoying himself so thoroughly, and things have fallen into place so perfectly. The key was a stroke of luck. Depositing it in his coat pocket happened long before Will found himself treading on too-thin ice, breaking through and shrinking away when his foot dipped too deep into the frozen waters. It could have been much worse, but Hannibal’s temper was not so fierce as it was fully exasperated with him and the entire situation…and curious. How much was Will ready to see, how much could he withstand? Hannibal had badly miscalculated, if Will’s heated reaction was anything to go by. Right?

The realization came with a dull pain, something like deep disappointment digging a hole through his chest, but there was a hint of real sorrow behind it all. He tried to ignore the regret. He knew Will would forgive him. As the hours passed and the wine settled in his blood and Will had still not come to him, the discomfort grew. It was an unusual feeling, not something he was familiar with. He tried to shake it, but it continued to expand, gnawing at him like a wild animal chewing through its own broken limb. He kept a watchful eye on his phone, prepared to answer it the moment Will broke. And he would break. Surely. By nightfall, Will had not reached out and Hannibal was both impressed with the young man’s resolve and frustrated with it. It irritated him, it rubbed him wrong. This wasn’t supposed to be how it happened.

Will did eventually find him, catching him off guard with his thoughts and actions delayed, but he had been fully aware of his actions and the words that left his mouth— Carefully rehearsed and prepared, until he spoke aloud and abandoned the script entirely. He might have fawned over Will, coaxed him forward and won him over in a more disingenuous manner, but that was not what happened. Will’s company brought him genuine warmth, an odd sort of relief that felt vaguely foreign to him, yet familiar. He knows the emotion, and he has felt it before. It’s stirring up some feelings he cannot place, and others he would much rather leave behind.

_“What is left in you to love?”_

Looking down at Will now, fascinating and lovely as he is, his mouth pleasantly hot and wet around him and so inexperienced but so eager and willing to learn…

Will Graham, with his insufferable manners and his innate messiness, his constant dog-smell masked by cheap cologne, and his incessant prying; his bright eyes and their capacity for darkness, the wild curls on his head that beg to be adored and pulled, and his own captivating (and charmingly clumsy) sort of grace, had seduced him a long time ago.

 

* * *

 

**_Two Weeks Later_ **

Exposure therapy! Who knew? Winston finally comes to terms with the reality of his master’s situation with Hannibal, though he does make his displeasure known in frequent exaggerated huffs and dramatic, sleepy sighs whenever the two of them rendezvous. Will visits as often as possible, which is restricted mostly to the weekends because of work and classes. He counts the hours until he can see him again. They don’t sleep at the apartment, not since Will received some serious noise complaints, and was threatened with eviction.

Will has become insatiable, and it thrills him that Hannibal slips into the habit of coming up behind him to press gentle, passing kisses to his cheeks and wrap his arms possessively around Will’s waist. It’s always unexpected, unwarranted. It’s really the little things, like his gaze lingering a little too long from across the room when he should be tending to other matters, or the pleased smiles that appear whenever Will says something that might have been relatively stupid. His casual indifference doesn’t disappear entirely. It’s too ingrained in him for that. It will take time, or it might never leave. But his face is open, and becomes increasingly responsive to Will’s questions and the pathetic attempts made to woo him. He is willing to communicate. He indulges Will’s wishes quite often, no matter how spontaneous or peculiar. His natural curiosity helps quite a bit.

Things are okay.

Which means they probably aren’t, if Will has learned anything at all.

 

 **_Matt  
_ ** _How did that emergency go?_

 __ **Will**  
_Oh, sorry. I meant to get back to you. I got it sorted out._  
How are you?

****

Will continues admiring the long-legged man lounging on the opposite end of the sofa. Winston is sprawled between them, resting his head in the middle of Hannibal’s lap with a look of contentment. Will is stuck with the back end. He smiles down at the fluffy tail that brushes lazily against his thigh, and watches as Hannibal absently strokes Winston’s head, busy reading. Will wonders if he’s even aware that he is petting the dog, or if it’s automatic. This is progress. Like Hannibal feeding Winston gourmet ‘scraps’ from the kitchen whenever he thinks Will isn’t looking; often right after he comments on Winston’s severe lack of table manners. Will pretends to be offended most of the time, but it’s getting harder to roll with it. He’s too happy.

It’s late, almost pitch-black outside and his belly is full of food and his eyes are beginning to burn with exhaustion, but Will is much too comfortable where he is to complain. He watches Hannibal, listens to the sound of soft, slow breathing, until maroon eyes finally notice him and drift over and lock down on his own blue ones, inquisitive. He’s been aware for much longer, of course, but he likes it when Will looks at him, and Will knows it. Will doesn’t stop staring until he’s had his fill, observing the artful way in which Hannibal composes himself. Not quite fragile, but deceivingly delicate. He seems warm and inviting, the lit fire reflected against skin and in his eyes, golden flecks accentuating the red. It’s mesmerizing.

“Something you need, Will?” He’s amused, though his face struggles not to show it. Will detects the hint of a smile, a lifted corner at the edge of his mouth revealing pointed teeth.

“Nothing,” Will says, feeling his face flush, but he pushes on. “Your attention, I guess.”

“You have it,” Hannibal replies smoothly, marking his place in the book and closing it carefully before he sets it aside. After resting his head against the back of the sofa, he turns to face Will and waits expectantly for further instruction. Will swallows before speaking again. He really put himself on the spot. His mind is buzzing with all sorts of things he’s been meaning to ask, but now he’s just overwhelmed by the fact that this painfully gorgeous person is in front of him and is currently fixing him with _that_ particular look—

Will jumps at the vibration against his thigh, mumbling an apology before giving it a quick look.

 

 **_Matt_ ** _  
I really need to talk to you_

 **_Read_ ** _11:43PM_

 

He tosses it aside on the floor, pushes it far out of reach. Though the statement itself somewhat unnerves him, there are more pressing matters now. Like getting laid. Ominous text messages can wait.

“Not important?” Hannibal asks.

“Nope,” Will says, and sets his plan into motion. “Would you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“I’m, um, hungry.”

Hannibal quirks an eyebrow. “You’ve already eaten.”

“I’m craving something sweet.”

“Well, let us fix that.”

Will pesters him relentlessly in the kitchen the entire time, following him around in the same manner Winston pads good-naturedly after Will when looking for treats. Will is looking for treats as well, but not exactly what Hannibal manages to create with the late hour and short notice he is given. Though that is certainly a bonus.

“You should let yourself be more vocal,” Will says, bumping his head against Hannibal’s shoulder and digging his fingers into the thin shirt he’s wearing. The mild heat radiating from the stove is inviting.

“I was unaware I had trouble speaking.” It’s said more like a question. “Unless you are referring to my, as you once put it, ‘funny accent?’”

“I meant during sex,” Will suggests.

He delights in the sound of dishes clanging together, just a little too suddenly. It might have been an accident, might not.

“It’s like music to my ears,” Will gloats, beginning to smirk at the silence. His face is hidden. “I’ve never heard something so, hmm, _divine_.”

Credit where credit it is due, Hannibal recovers. “There is no need to make fun of me. And I’m not inclined.”

“You seemed ‘inclined’ when I was sucking your—“

“You are a pain. Why don’t you find a place to sit?”

Will migrates, smiling, into the dining room to grant some space after feeling that he has caused enough interruption with his tentative kissing and frequent touching, and now his purposeful teasing. He fixes his gaze on the glass doors while Winston sits obediently at his feet and noses at his legs, sniffing for anything interesting. He finds nothing. It’s snowing outside, not hard, and it will melt in the morning if enough of it even gathers together on the ground for it to freeze overnight. He should rest soon, but he feels safe here, and that is such a slippery feeling. He wants to cling to it for as long as he can. Sleeping will hasten the sun, waste precious time he might have spent enjoying himself. He doesn’t want to leave.

“Sauteed bananas with cardamom praline sauce,” Hannibal says, and Will jerks his head in the direction of the doorway. His eyes land on the singular bowl Hannibal has brought in.

“And _ice cream_ ,” Will observes with dumb excitement, and he swears Hannibal is making his best effort not to roll his eyes. What a martyr.

“Had I been given fair warning, I might have prepared something more—“

“Extravagant? Totally unnecessary? Artsy? This is fine. Thank you,” Will says, grinning lopsidedly and feeling pleased when Hannibal sits in the chair next to his. He takes a bite, exhaling slow through his nose as the taste explodes across his tongue. He’s almost too tired to pay attention to anything other than the dessert itself, and that makes it even better. He savors it with his eyes closed.

“Will?”

“What?”

“You are falling asleep.”

“I’m not,” he lies, peeking up to see that hint of a smile again. It looks like it doesn’t belong there, just an imperfection, a crack running through an otherwise stoic marble figure. It’s not quite real. That makes it special. “Don’t laugh at me. Will you have some?”

“No, thank you. It’s for you.”

Will can’t believe he’s made him go out of his way, just so he can pull this incredibly predictable move. Perhaps he will look back on it fondly. Or with a grimace. It depends on how this pans out. He makes his best attempt at (seductively? oh, _fucking_ Christ, abort) dipping his spoon into the dessert before popping it in his mouth again. Before he loses his courage, he leans forward and reaches out to tangle his fingers in the front of Hannibal’s shirt. He tugs him close. It might have worked if Winston hadn’t jumped up at that very second, his tongue just narrowly missing Will’s face and instead lapping at thin air.

If it had been anyone else, they would have laughed Will out of the room and he would have never gotten over the humiliation. Since it’s Hannibal, he grabs Will by the wrist before he can retreat in his shame, and urges him to try again. “Come here, small one.”

Reluctantly, Will does, allowing himself to be pulled into the other chair and sit in his lap. He faces him, and it’s no less exciting than every other time he’s done it. Embarrassing perhaps, but that fades fast when a hand rests against the back of his head and brings him in for a kiss. Will already swallowed most of the dessert, but Hannibal still licks into his mouth as though there is plenty more to be shared, and Will instantly sags against him. Winston nudges his thigh, feeling left out, but he wanders over to the window once his human companions ignore him in favor of tasting each other.

“You might have simply asked me,” Hannibal purrs.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” Will says, cheeks burning. His disaster has become a blessing.

It’s innocent at first. At _first._ Once hands travel down his sides and rest on his hips, clutching at his waist while thumbs brush over his lower stomach, and finally slide around to grip at his ass, he knows it’s going to change. _Good._ He leans into the touch, his breath hitching when fingers knead and dig into flesh through the fabric of his pants. He opens his eyes only halfway when the kiss finally ends and the groping comes to a pause. Hannibal is staring at him, regarding him with great affection, but he glances twice at something out of the corner of his eye and Will doesn’t miss the detour. Will turns his head to get a look for himself, spots Winston peering at something outside with his tail slightly raised, but Will can’t see anything with his own eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Hannibal assures him, and he doesn’t give Will the chance to ask again. With a sudden renewed energy, he’s on his feet and Will has no choice but to wrap his legs around him and be carried, his eyes blown wide with surprise and more than a little fear. _Don’t fucking drop me!_ he almost spits, but the words die unspoken in his throat when he’s kissed fiercely and his back collides with the table as he’s laid out on top of it, and with Hannibal on top of _him._

Winston starts barking, and Will tries to shush him, but he’s fast becoming distracted with the insistent, rhythmic roll of hips against his, the mouth biting and sucking against his throat over wounds that only just recently began to heal and disappear. In some faraway place, he hears a bowl clattering in the floor, and he groans because shit, that’s kind of a waste. He’s wondering if it’s safe for Winston to eat, but his dog hasn’t rushed over to lick it up yet by the sound of it. He must be too focused on them right now. He sounds pissed.

“O-okay. Maybe we should move,” Will urges, hardly able to get a word in because of all the disorder, shivering as teeth bite his lips and a hand slips down the front of his pants, cupping him. Another runs up the inside of his thigh, pinches him through his clothes. “ _Oh._ Bedroom?”

“No,” Hannibal says, stern. It’s hot in his ear and feverish. “I want to bend you over, here. Now.”

That’s straightforward. Will’s head rolls back and thumps hard against the table, his face red from the explicit confession. He’s finding it hard to breathe now, between the kissing and the building excitement. He nods enthusiastically. God, yes.  

Winston’s barking is loud and frequent now, and ends only when the sharp cracking of shattering glass jolts Will and Hannibal out of their passionate encounter. Will flinches at the noise and squeezes his eyes shut, instinctively clutching at Hannibal’s arms and hiding his face from any possible damage, but Hannibal doesn’t move an inch. A moment passes. When nothing else happens, Will spares a tentative glance at the doors. One of them is busted open, hardly any of the glass clinging to the frame now, and a large rock rests in the floor among the scattered shards. Winston is growling, but he’s retreated to hide under the table, out of view and unharmed. Will’s heart is rattling around wildly in his chest, but Hannibal’s pulse under Will’s fingers is entirely steady. Did it ever spike? His movements are unhurried and smooth when he gently pulls Will off the table and sets him on his feet.

“I’m going to start trusting Winston over you,” Will huffs, rushing to zip up his pants while he lingers by Hannibal’s side. It’s hard to see through the falling snow and the lights only reach so far, but there isn’t a single sign of someone else being out there. “I don’t see anyone.”

“They haven’t left quite yet,” Hannibal says easily, and starts to walk to the door, but Will grabs his arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hisses.

“Will, if the intent was to hurt us, it would have happened. And it would have been much worse than a thrown stone. This is a tantrum, not a threat.”

Will might could still argue with that logic, but he follows Hannibal and steps outside into the freezing air, hugging himself for warmth. Winston whimpers behind him and he whispers for him to get back, quickly looking around again for any sign of the culprit. Footprints materialize in the snow as his eyes adjust. They lead up to the house and then they go the way they came, back into the darkness. This stranger is a bit smaller, but that is all Will can take away from what he’s seeing. His first thought is Abel Gideon. But Abel would have bragged about the destruction, he wouldn’t have tossed it without preparing an entire speech to give after the fact, the bastard. He wouldn’t run away.

Will gives Hannibal a look, waiting for his own conclusion, surprised when he is met with a knowing smile in response.

“Perhaps we should give them another incentive to come forward?”

Will doesn’t have time to ask what he could possibly mean, let alone process what lies behind words, before Hannibal moves around him and wraps his arms over Will’s, ultimately caging him. If he wriggled enough, he could get free; this isn’t an attempt to restrain him, but it is odd, and Will stays put for lack of knowing what else to do. He turns his head to demand an explanation, but is instantly cut off with a demanding and rough kiss on the mouth. It almost draws blood.

For a moment he considers the explanation that Hannibal has simply gone insane, but it clicks into place eventually.

“You said _another_ ,” Will growls once his lips are freed, and he digs his nails hard into the hands that lie on his hips. They don’t move. “So, that’s what you were looking at. You knew. You saw them and you wanted to provoke them. Mind telling me why that is?”

“I have an idea of who it might be,” Hannibal says quietly, overall unconcerned, and now resigned to nuzzling Will’s neck. If Will weren’t so frustrated, he might enjoy it. Instead he feels cheated out of an intimate moment, and now he’s unsettled by the open hostility being aimed at them by an unknown force. And by Hannibal’s nonchalant attitude. Should they really be standing here like this, if some asshole is out here watching them? Will isn’t too keen on getting a rock thrown at his head.

“Oh?” he inquires bitterly.

Teeth graze his ear. “I think it’s time you introduced me to your friend, face to face, don’t you?”

Will shivers from cold and panic, feeling the easy smile pressing into his throat, taunted by the gentle way he’s being restrained, and the absentminded caresses over his stomach and hands. He can’t do anything but swallow and lean back, lift his head to see Hannibal staring down at him. He knows. He knows even more than Will does.

It’s wrong, but the show of dominance, _possession_ , even with Will being blind to it at the time, is incredibly arousing. _Shit, Matt._

 


End file.
